


Through His Eyes

by InnerSpectrum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-03-29 15:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 37,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13929627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: It looked like something good was happening in Greg's life. Then something bad happened. Now he is trying to hide it for as long as he can from the two people whom he knows he cannot lie to:The Holmes Brothers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All credit given naturally to Mr. Steven Moffat, Mr. Mark Gatiss, and of course Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for such inspiring characters.
> 
> Thanks to my ever patient beta amplewoman. I write, she corrects and prays for me - when she's not cussing me out herself. Trust me I've earned both, the need for cussing out and the need for prayer.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s warm brown eyes glanced around the briefing room at large.

Eleven weeks.

He has almost made it three full months. He once wondered if he’d make it eleven whole days.

No one in the squad knew. Nor were they ever going to, as far as Greg was concerned.

Donovan, as his partner and the person who worked most closely with him, was aware he was “a lot more of a ferocious silverback" than usual from time to time, but even she seemed to have accepted his occasional moodiness as his norm now.

He did not want this to be his norm. Regardless it was his reality, for now.

John Watson, who suspected some of it in the beginning, and Sherlock Homes, who deduced most of it - of course, took their cues from him. Sherlock was, as always, an outright bastard when he chose to be - which was often. Still, if he notices Greg's tolerance was on low, he will curtail it, only a bit mind you – he is Sherlock Holmes after all, but he did try to be less abrasive. When he does not notice, or chooses not to, John -God bless him- is often there to reign in the consulting detective’s more vicious diatribes should he go too far.

Then there was _him_.

Greg was in turmoil. He yearned for the feel of what could have been. What could have been in those sweet halcyon days when there was the potential. The potential of being the two of them, together _._

 _When there was a chance of there being a_ we _, of there being an_ us _, of being happy…_

Before it all went to shite two months ago.

And that was his fault he knew.

But, what if the truth came out? Is his heart's desire potentially worth his life?

_Non._

_I will not allow that to happen._ Ever _. I’m just another copper. But he’s…_

_He’s… Mycroft Holmes._

The Mycroft Holmes whom he sent out of his life nearly three months ago, ending things with them before they really had a chance to begin.

The Mycroft Holmes who now sat at the table in front of Greg; his expression as cold and inscrutable as ever.

_Oh God! How am I supposed to get through this?_

Gregory Lestrade wanted nothing less than for those piercing blue eyes to peer endlessly into his.

_Because he’ll know._

He will know Greg wanted nothing more than for his own brown eyes to stare endlessly into his.

_How did this all of this get so bloody twisted?_

But Greg knew exactly how.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took everything he had to not buckle under the weight of the full-blown panic that was about to overtake him as a familiar black sedan slowly pulled up.  
> Greg stood there petrified.  
>  _No! No! He’s NOT supposed to be back yet! Non!_

Gregory Lestrade opened his eyes and stared at his living room wall.

He had to go to work, he knew it. He felt iffy, but he could not avoid this.

He forced himself out of the fetal position he fell asleep in on the couch and grimaced as he flipped his pillow over, upset, but not surprised to find it damp upon awakening.

He startled up when the alarm on his mobile went off to wake the man who had barely slept. He hissed in regret as he laid back down.

“Bloody hell!”

When he finally got up it portended to be a bad day. Hours later knowing he was right, did not help.

“Boss?” Sally Donovan held back her wind tossed curls with one hand, tapped him gently on the shoulder with the other. He vaguely realized she had been calling his name a couple of times now, but his mind was elsewhere.

“Yeah, sorry Sal. Still a little out of it from the bug, I guess.” He shook his head and refocused on the crime scene in front of him. A male, mid-twenties, swung from a fire escape, naked from the waist down. Hands tied behind him, his feet dangled mere inches from the bloodied ground beneath him. Blood that dripped from the missing genitals. This was now the fifth murder in as many weeks. They officially had a serial killer, two kills ago. It was a horror show with no discernable leads so far. Greg knew he should have called in Sherlock after the third victim, definitely after the fourth one, and now they were on the fifth without much progress.

Still, he simply could not. He knew he was not ready to deal with this yet.

 _No, be honest with yourself, Greg, you’re not ready to deal with_ him _._

He idly watched Metro keeping the perimeter large enough to keep the media and general public far enough away until evidence could be properly collected. The latest victim, someone known for his hard partying, hard drugging lifestyle was the grandson of a Member of Parliament.

The horror show had turned into a nightmare. The pressure was on.

_Pressure, I do not need._

Pressure, that was about to get worse as he looked up.

_Nique!_

“ _You_ called him?”

Greg glared at Donovan as he tried to control his ratcheting anxiety as a familiar tall figure held up a section of police tape for him and his flatmate to duck under at Donovan’s beckoning.

“Greg, it’s the fifth one! It’s ugly and with this one it’s about to get uglier. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need the freak. How have you _NOT_ called him yet?” Sally looked at him completely taken aback at his barely contained hostility for the consulting detective’s appearance. Sally was usually the one against Sherlock being brought in to consult and he being the one defending it. He knew it was bad.

Greg ran a rough hand through his spikey silver hair and bit back hard from the memory evoked of other hands that had been through it.

“Five of them. Five. And _Donovan_ placed the call?” Ever arrogant, Sherlock Holmes tutted as he and John Watson approached, “Are you trying to get more people killed, Giles?”

_Ferme ta gueule!_

“It’s Greg! You bloody bastard! Greg! What the fuck is so hard about _Greg_ you can’t get it bloody right?!” Lestrade snarled in his face.

Sherlock froze in the middle of pulling out his kit and arched a dark brow at him, luminous eyes quickly glanced from Greg to John and back in momentary disbelief.

_Christ! I can’t do this. I can’t. I’ve got to get the bloody hell away from Sherlock, before he sees!_

“Whoa, Greg!” John looked up at the detective inspector, the doctor’s face aptly expressing the shock on the faces of those around him who heard the outburst. “What gives?”

Greg gritted his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose, before he quickly shoved his hand in pocket of his trench coat.

_I came back to work too soon. I’m still too close to the edge, too close to losing it. I can deal with the murder or with Sherlock, but not bloody both._

_Not today._

_Maybe not tomorrow either._

He needed to get away from them. He could not let the consulting detective’s piercing gaze rest too long on him. He needed more time to get himself together.

“You called him, Donovan, you deal with him. I, I don’t feel well.” Greg glanced at his sergeant and walked away.

“What’s wrong with him? He does look a bit ropey.” He heard John ask Donovan.

“He said he had one of those twenty-four hour flus that lasted longer so he was out for a cou...”

Greg missed whatever Donovan said after that as he lifted the police tape and froze in place. It took everything he had to not buckle under the weight of the full-blown panic that was about to overtake him as a familiar black sedan slowly pulled up, idled for a moment then pulled away.

Greg stood there petrified.

_No! No! He’s NOT supposed to be back yet! Non!_

“Detective Inspector, are you not well?”

Anthea’s voice pierced through and Greg realized he still stood with his arm holding up the yellow police tape. Mycroft Holmes’ assistant stood on his side of tape, clearly thinking Greg had held it for her. The immense relief that flooded Greg felt more than his limbs feeling wobbly. He barely made it to the wall in time to decorate it with the hours old coffee and doughnut, his only food consumption for the morning. It took everything to not fall to his knees then and there as he purged.

“I will take that as a _yes_.” She commented evenly as Greg stood upright again, “Might I suggest…”

Greg held up a hand cutting off whatever the enigmatic woman was about to say. The very last thing Greg needed was for that cool gaze of hers to focus on him and report it to her boss. Dealing with Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft, would be worse than dealing with Sherlock himself, in so many ways. It was bad enough that without even turning he felt the eyes of his team on him. It was a blessed miracle there were no reporters or film crews around as it was to catch his upchuck. He shook his head at Anthea as he ducked under the tape at last. He saw the black sedan parked a little further down and realized the driver had simply moved to a better fitting spot. Greg just short of ran for his car and got in.

He saw the caller ID as his mobile buzzed and groaned.

_Of course, they saw that!_

“Clearly, I’m more sick than I thought. I feel like my body is about to run through all exits. Just give me a couple of days, Sal. You’ve got Sherlock. You’ve got this. Oh God, I have to hang – oh god..!” Greg made a gagging sound and rang off, then tossed the mobile aside and pulled away before anyone saw him still parked there.

At least his public hurling backed up the lie of his being sick the past couple of days. He hated lying to them, but he could not deal with the truth right now. He simply could not put the truth out there for another shoulder to bear.

_But what lies are going to get me to bear this?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nique!_ = Fuck!
> 
>  _Ferme ta gueule!_ = Shut the fuck up!
> 
> Yes, this Greg does a lot of his internal, and occasional external, cursing in French


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg walked to his bedroom door.  
>  _You can do this. It’s nothing in comparison. Open the door and walk in – eyes wide open._  
>  Greg did and cringed.  
> He fought with his body wanting to heave again with memory.

Greg opened his eyes and looked around his living room. The telly was showing a documentary that had watched him as he had fallen asleep on the sofa. He refused to watch news when he was home, he got more than enough of it at work.

His mobile rang in and he glanced at the ID, John Watson. Greg started to pick it up…

_Maybe I can talk to John, he had spoken things like this from when he served. I could implore him not to talk to – no. No. He’d tell Sherlock first thing._

He let the call go to voicemail.

He sat up carefully; quick moves still set a twinge.

Beer cans littered the coffee table. The fast food he had picked-up on the way home lay half-eaten and cold. It was mid-morning when he got in. It was late-afternoon by the clock.

_How did so much of the day go by? This will not do._

_But what are you going to do, Gregory?_

He began with cleaning the trash off the coffee table. That turned into cleaning the coffee table itself, which turned into changing the drapes, hoovering the rug and dusting the bookshelves.

He stopped when he came across a little gold paper crown on a bookshelf.

_Mon roi._

Greg’s team had worked with Mycroft Holmes’ people during the fall, after a New Scotland Yard investigation happened into a crime lord based in Minsk with some deep London connections. It was the first time he and Mycroft worked together in a professional capacity that had not involved his baby brother. A couple of days after the successful joint operation, Greg had received the unexpected gift of a serving of galette des roi delivered by Mycroft Holmes in person. Weeks later while cleaning up loose ends with Mycroft, the paper crown inspired Greg to go with his gut instinct. That gut instinct that got him his first kiss out of the Iceman.

_“By order of le roi: Kiss me right now and make it as good as that damned galette you gave me.”_

Goodness knows the galette was superb and that first kiss was even better! Greg smiled at the memory, even as tears threatened. That first kiss, was nearly four months ago. They have been on a few dates, but politics and the criminal class that are the crux of their respective jobs had limited the time they have had to see each other. Still, Greg had never been happier in his life at the potential of where this was headed.

_Does barely a handful of dates and some wonderful kisses mean we were seeing each other? Are still seeing each other? Will he still want to see me when he finds out? Because he’s going to find out._

Greg knew the Holmes brothers. There was no way this would be hidden from them forever, but he could not let Sherlock find out about it now. The last thing Greg wanted was for Sherlock to go after them and get himself killed because of him.

He just had to stay out of Sherlock’s focus until this case was concluded. Until the physical wounds healed. Until he could get a better grip on his own emotions.

_I can do that._

That was easier than hiding from Mycroft.

_He simply can’t see me now. That great fucking mind of his would deduce what happened in no time flat and Mycroft would tell Sherlock. I know he would._

He placed the crown back on the shelf and continued cleaning when the doorbell rang.

“Greg, it’s me, John. I know you are home, I can hear the telly. Let me in, or I’m using the key.”

_Merde!_

Before John moved into Baker Street, Greg would come home every now and then only to find the curly haired detective had broken in and was waiting for him. After a while Greg gave up replacing locks and simply gave the man a key. He was not surprised at all John had them. He should have known the doctor was going to check on him personally after throwing up at the crime scene.

_Just get it over with, Greg._

Greg quickly went around the room and closed the curtains, then grabbed a throw from the sofa and wrapped it around him to answer the door.

“John, I’m fine.” Greg held the door open.

“Uh-huh, thanks. And as you like to tell Sherlock _let the professionals_ …” John arched a blond brow and walked in.

_Christ, he actually has his doctor’s bag with him._

He sat heavily barely keeping the wince suppressed. Watson started to reach for a lamp.

“Don’t. Have a slight headache. The sunlight is bothering me as is. The telly is on more for the sound than for watching.”

Greg almost felt guilty for the concern that crossed the doctor’s face as he placed his bag on the coffee table, pulled out his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. John went to the bathroom to wash his hands and returned with Greg’s own personal thermometer.

“Christ John, I said I was fine – just a bit lurgy.” Greg pulled the throw tighter around him, while trying to keep his wrists hidden.

“Then why did you upswallow earlier? Why are you now wrapped in a throw as though you’re freezing though it’s nice in here? And why did you wince when you sat just now like you’re achy?”

_Damn, he did see it. Can’t even say it’s too much time around Sherlock, just doctor’s instinct._

“Fine! I did not feel like getting the step stool and fell this morning when I was putting a book back on an upper shelf. Fell right hard on my arse and it still smarts, okay? Don’t tell Donovan.”

The erstwhile army captain said nothing, just held the thermometer out threateningly. Greg sighed and opened his mouth.

_Does he believe me? Please let him believe that crock of shite._

John spoke on trivial things as he checked Greg’s vitals. The detective inspector thanked his lucky stars the doctor was looking askance as he felt for a pulse at his wrist. He quickly snatched his hand back under the throw once released.  

“Your pressure and heart rate are a little elevated, nothing to take note of, yet, but yes, you’re otherwise fine. You might want to lay off the beer and let your stomach settle.” John put his doctor’s paraphernalia away.

Greg had cleared the coffee table, but he had not brushed his teeth or rinsed his mouth. He could comply. He knew he drank all the beer that was in the house. Greg nodded idly, as he glanced at the liquor cabinet.

_No Greg. Stop looking. He’ll see and never let it go until you’ve told him._

“I know your mind is on the case. Sherlock believes the Belkin murder is a copycat, but the murder of the original four is still out there and we’ve got to find him.” John stood, Greg followed as the doctor headed toward the door. “I see you’ve got paracetamol in the cabinet. Take it if you feel you need it, but I think you’ll do with a climb in your bed and get some rest. Doctor’s orders. Let’s give this a shot again in the morning, okay mate?”

“Ya, thanks for coming by John. It’s appreciated.”

_Now please, go!_

“No problem. See you at The Yard tomorrow. When I left the clinic Sherlock said he was starting on an experiment. Let me go see what destruction he’s done to the Baker Street kitchen.” John half-smiled from the door.

“Ya, good luck with that. See you tomorrow, John.” Greg nodded and closed the door behind him with immense relief.

Greg walked to his bedroom door.

 _You can do this. It’s nothing in comparison. Open the door and walk in – eyes wide open_.

Greg did and cringed.

He fought with his body wanting to heave again with memory.

He woke up three mornings ago, realized he was not tied down and ran out of the room and down the hall.

Into his own living room.

They had been in his _home_.

The evil bastard had his bedroom redecorated with the furniture from the room he had held been captive held in. Worse they brought in the same bed, complete with rope still attached to the rail. The only saving grace is they did not have time to wallpaper the room. Greg was certain had there been the time or the material it would have been done. The bastard was that sadistic.

They had drugged him. Brought him home. And left him naked on _that_ bed.

They had broken and entered into the home of a New Scotland Yard’s detective inspector and left only the evidence they wanted to leave.

Greg had fallen to his knees and screamed from the shock of it.

He then crawled into the bathroom and spent the next hour in the shower under near scalding hot water until the water ran cold. Shivered under the cold water until it ran hot again scrubbing himself raw in many places.

It was the Chief Inspector’s call demanding on update on the then fourth murder that had kept him from destroying the room, then and there in pure rage. He had to go to work.

He barely stood in the bedroom long enough to get his clothes from the wardrobe each day. He had not had the time or the emotional strength since, sleeping on his sofa each night with his gun. When he finally had a break in his case load was he was going to have to hire workers to rip it all out and paint. In the interim he either had to walk into the room blind or give himself a pep talk to enter it.

_“…climb in your bed and get some rest.”_

John Watson had no way of knowing that rest would not be found there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gold crown was a reference to a Mystrade Christmas ficlet I wrote:
> 
> [By Order of Le Roi ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12942333)  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/12942333
> 
> “Merde!” = “Shit!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British Government ended a mobile call as they approached. Greg felt every muscle in his body tense at the sight of him.

Greg closed his eyes momentarily as Sally Donovan pointed at Sherlock’s ankle wrapped in a bandage, just barely keeping her self-satisfied smirk in check. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before leaping off of a moving motorcycle. Why didn’t you wait for me or the police?”

_Because we never would have caught the man if he had._

Sherlock sat in Lestrade’s office with Donovan.  They had finished most of the paper work for the Walter Reynold serial killings. Greg had put Donovan’s name in as the lead. She was getting the credit for the case as she should. Understandably she wanted to do it in Greg’s office where it was quieter. Sherlock was in to finish relating his part of the take down. Greg sat at his desk trying hard to look appropriately aggrieved as he normally would when Sherlock did something incredibly stupid for such a brilliant man, which was often, without rousing the consulting detective’s suspicion. 

_I’m not looking up. I can feel those damned eyes of yours on me, Sherlock. There’s no way I can leave the room without it looking as though I’m running away - again._

“You were a half block behind me, Donovan, and Metro was behind you, wait for the police?” Sherlock shot the sergeant a scathing look, “Reynold ran into traffic, hi-jacked that motorcyclist at a red light and would have gotten away. It was fortunate the Harley owner jumped off her chopper to help her friend, so I could commandeer it while she was distracted and go after him before he got away.” 

“By jumping from that chopper, to his. I swear, I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, Sherlock!” Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, leaving it rested on his neck for a moment.  He saw as Sherlock slowly raised his eyes to him, then quickly looked away as he lowered his hand again.

_Thank God the rope burns at his wrists at his wrist were almost faded. Even Sherlock would be hard pressed to see them._

Greg brought up the photos from the Belkin murder and looked at the wrists again. The restraint pattern on his wrists matched Belkin.

_The bloody bastards had held me and did the copycat with Lord Belkin's grandson, as well. They wanted me to know!_

“Clearly, I was thinking I could make the leap safely.” Sherlock responded tetchily. “Even so, I DID catch him. I solved the case, Donovan. Now the families of the four victims will have justice. Oh and you’re welcome, by the way.”

_Un merdeux!_

Greg sighed, he recognized that tone of voice from Sherlock. The Drama Queen felt he was not being properly appreciated for his efforts.

“It’s not that we are not grateful, Sherlock. We are, and as always, thank you.” Lestrade looked at the man, “But can you at least leave the arrest up to the professionals? Please? I’d give you back the handcuffs you used on him, but I know they are one of mine you stole previously.”

Sherlock had the audacity to smirk.

“On the desk, you.” Greg sighed as Sherlock placed two pairs of handcuffs on his desk.

“Five families, Sherlock.” Donovan corrected Sherlock, shaking her head as she picked up her own handcuffs from the desk. Like Greg, she was no rarely surprised by Sherlock’s antics. Those who chose to work with the consulting detective quickly learnt things like that were part and parcel of doing so.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound as he pulled out his mobile and started to text. Walter Reynold had accepted the responsibility for the murder of Daniel Belkin. Lord Belkin was satisfied, but Lestrade and Donovan knew Sherlock was not.

The hanging and emasculation were public knowledge; the hands being bound behind the victims in a specific pattern was not released to the public. That meant the copycat had access to the police reports. Yet they purposely re-did everything just slightly off in such a way Sherlock would notice it was a copy. Donovan had not noticed, but John, with his had noticed it off almost immediately.

 _Fuck! He wanted Sherlock at the scene to observe me, not Belkin. The bloody bastard_ wanted _Sherlock to know! He knew I wouldn’t tell him._

Greg felt as though he was going to be sick all over again. He closed the pictures on his screen and started typing a report for another case.

“It was Reynold’s misfortune, and our luck, he picked a kickboxer who can protect himself reasonably well, even when drunk, enough that he was able to get away before being emasculated. Then he actually called it in and came in to identify. I applaud him. I’m just grateful it was all figured out before Elliot Pincus became the sixth.” Donovan let out an exasperated breath ignoring Sherlock as she continued. “The world as a survivor of sexual assault is massively difficult for women, even more so for men. Unconscious, or blatant victim blaming – with opinions of what should have been done to prevent the rape, or worse how someone should have responded. We’d all like to think we’d turn into raging monsters defending ourselves, but the fact is no one truly know how they would react in that moment. Fight or fright or flop and survive it, are all valid responses. Pincus survived the rape, which was the important thing. Now he can heal.”

Greg’s typing had quieted as he listened to Sally’s words and chanced a look at his sergeant. He half expected her to be looking directly at him, but she her attention was on the files she stacked to be taken to archives. He nearly jumped out of his seat when the nearby mobile on his desk pinged with a text. He glanced at his mobile.

_Mycroft._

He had managed to avoid the elder Holmes brother for nearly a week. With the capture of Reynold he knew that clock had finally ticked down. His fingers trembled slightly as he responded quickly. He flicked guilt filled eyes at Sherlock, as he pulled at his cuffs, again.

Congratulations, Gregory on the Reynold arrest. – MH

Thank you. – GL

I am in the sedan to pick up the wayward child known as my baby brother, arriving now. –MH

_Excellent, I can send Sherlock down and hopefully avoid his scrutiny._

So that he does not dawdle. Is it possible you could escort him down? –MH

_Merde!_

“True. That Reynold also raped his victims was kept out of the media.” Sherlock winced as he moved his foot, turning his attention to Sally. Greg wished John was there to shoot the idiot genius on of his trademark _I told you so_ looks.

“Most men who escape their rapist, unless it was so physically damaging medical attention was necessary, would have ran home, locked their doors, shower away all evidence and hide out, never admitting what happened. Hopefully, Pincus has a personal support network or someone professional to speak to. It had a happy ending for him, but it is still a trauma. He needs to talk to someone.” Sherlock reached for the crutches Greg knew the man hated. He hazarded a look at the curly haired genius.

_Christ! It feels like he’s talking directly to me! I’m a cop. I know better and yet that was exactly what I did. I washed away any evidence that might have been able to arrest my attacker, but knowing what they’re capable of they would likely find some way to go free._

Sherlock stood and turned towards the door. “John is working at the clinic today, he's going to yell that I was out, regardless that my brother has a car waiting downstairs for me. Anything else Donovan? Lestrade?”

“I'm good. This is all wrapped up, until the trial. I'd say it was a pleasure, but... I'd be lying. Working with you is taxing.” Sally stood as well. Greg sighed. He really did not understand the animosity Donovan held towards the detective.

“Taxing? If there were a tax on your brain Donovan, you wouldn’t have any money left.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he mentally dismissed her.

_Oh yes, that’s why._

Greg raised a finger to her, silently ordering her not to respond, so she glared at him instead. Lestrade forcibly pulled himself into the conversation, as he glanced at his mobile again. The elder Homes brother asked Lestrade to escort the younger Holmes down, when Sherlock was perfectly capable of getting downstairs on his own.

“Thanks Sal, you were great how you handled this while I was …out. I’ll be adding to your commendations.” Greg smiled, but there was no pleasure in it. “I'll walk Sherlock out.”

_It’s been nearly a week since he came back to London. Mycroft wants to see me in person._

He was not going to be able to get out of it.

“Don't trust me, boss?” Donovan asked saccharine sweet.

“As a matter of fact, no. You might take his crutch and understandably try to beat him with it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and Greg held up a finger to Sherlock this time cutting off what he knew would have been a lengthy diatribe, against his sergeant. Much to Greg and Donovan’s surprise, the consulting detective huffed, but complied as he half limped out of the room to the lifts.

_Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. Please!_

“You seem somewhat preoccupied for someone who just put a self-hating, homophobic serial killer behind bars.”  Sherlock waited until they were alone on the lift before he spoke.

_Zut!_

“What…? Oh yeah, that is not the only case on my desk. I’ve already moved on to the next thing.” Greg lied. 

_Christ! I’m trying to bald face lie to Sherlock Holmes – the bloody human lie detector - of all people!_

“Anything that I…?”

“No Sherlock, the next one is a not so simple string of breaking and entering, but simple enough that even an idiot cop like me figured it out." Greg growled lowly. He was too close to the end of his tether and he still had to deal with Mycroft.

“You solved it? That's novel." Sherlock scoffed, “A B&E is barely a 3 on my scale of importance.”

Lestrade snorted once and said nothing else as the lift opened on the main floor and they walked out of the building.

There was the sedan. And there was Mycroft, an expensive trench coat over his equally expensive waistcoat suited elegance, the ever present umbrella loosely held by his side in his long pale fingers. The British Government ended a mobile call as they approached. Greg felt every muscle in his body tense at the sight of him.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. Congratulations to you and your team on the arrest.” Mycroft inclined his head to Greg who felt those piercing blue eyes as they scanned over him.

“Holmes.” Hands in his pockets Lestrade willed himself to relax as he returned the gesture, “With your brother's timely help of course. Excuse me, I need coffee and not what is in the office. Sherlock get off that foot before John starts yelling. Gentlemen.”

“I'm not worried about John yelling at me.” Sherlock sniffed, handing the crutches to his brother.

Greg quickly turned and walked away as fast as he could.

“As always you think it's about you. Lestrade does not want John yelling at _him_.” Greg could not see it, but he knew, just knew Mycroft rolled his eyes. It was just as he knew that gaze looked him over once before he helped his brother into the sedan.

_Okay, Greg. You’ll know soon enough if you faked your way out of this one._

But Greg had the sinking suspicion his time for hiding the truth from either of the Holmes Brothers had finally run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un merdeux! = A little shit! Used the way an English speaker would say “you little shit” to an unruly child. 
> 
> Zut! = Damn!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You… You know don’t you?” Greg could not look at Mycroft, his voice small, tired, broken.
> 
> “Yes.”

Greg’s eyes flew open at a sound.

Despite what he had told himself earlier when he arrived home, he had chosen to become very acquainted with a bottle the twelve-year-old single malt in his possession. Even with the curtains closed it was darker than it should be and knew it was late.

Groggy and still half-drunk, he thought it might have been an errant noise from outside. Then he realized he heard the movement from within his flat and it heading towards him.

Movement that was much too close.

_Oh God, they came back?!_

_Non!_

Greg did not think about it, he flipped on the sofa, gun drawn with the safety off.

A strong grip grabbed the detective inspector’s lower arm on the upswing and shoved it towards the sofa, pulling him with it. A shot hit the ceiling. Lestrade’s wrist was then slammed against its hard edge of the sofa which caused the gun to fire again and shattered a vase on the bookshelf. The vice-like grip closed on his wrist, he screamed out in pain as the gun dropped behind the sofa. Greg tried to twist his lower body out, but the forward momentum of his opponent’s weight landed behind Greg with a solid knee in his back.

There was something familiar and yet not about this. In his panic Greg could not discern what was what. He vaguely remembered that was how he had been rolled over.

“ _Enculé!_ Get off me, you bloody bastard! GET OFF!” Greg screamed as he struggled against the solid weight that pressed him into the sofa. His face was pressed hard into the cushion he could barely get enough air to breathe.

“Lestrade! Stop this! It’s me, Mycroft!”

The words were as distant and as garbled as the sound of the coffee table as it was shoved back and his attacker quickly yanked him from the sofa to the floor and twisted him into a hold. He yelled when his arm was wretched further back as he continued to struggle in adrenaline fueled panic.

“Gregory, please stop! Please!”

The scent was the thing that was familiar. A scent of cologne pierced through his panic. A familiar cologne.

A familiar, expensive cologne.

_Mycroft._

“M-Mycroft...?”

“Yes, Gregory, it’s Mycroft.”

He had not realized he had spoken aloud. The grip lessened as the familiar voice answered, but did not release him.

_Mon Dieu! Mycroft! He’s here!_

Greg’s body sagged as the fight left entirely and Mycroft finally let go.

_I can’t face him yet. I can’t! Not like this! No._

Greg sat up slowly with his back against the sofa, head down; hands hung over his bent knees.

_He’s here, why? Oh Christ! He knows… He knows…_

“You… You know don’t you?” Greg could not look at Mycroft, his voice small, tired, broken.

He felt more than saw it as Mycroft gracefully lowered himself to the floor and mirrored Greg’s position, their knees nearly parallel, his back resting against the coffee table.

“Yes.”

Greg flinched, the weight of the confirmation simultaneously lifting and crushing.

Mycroft placed one hand on Greg’s arm. The touch cool against his flushed skin. Two weeks ago Greg had longed for that touch.

Today he simply could not bear it and shuddered.

Greg placed his other hand over Mycroft’s and gently, but decidedly pushed it away.

_Non, je ne peux pas._

“Sherlock deduced the fact of its occurrence, only. Your trying to hide it only amplified my brother’s awareness of it once his focus on the Reynold case was done. John half deduced it when he recognized the rope burns on you at the crime scene and confirmed it when he examined you. I confirmed their deductions were correct when I saw you earlier today. We just know _something_ happened. We…do not know the details.” Greg heard the hesitation in the Iceman’s voice.

Greg nodded slowly in acknowledgment of hearing him, then just sat there as tears streamed down his face.

“Tell me.” Mycroft’s voice was soft.

Greg shook his head in the negative.

_Non._

The head shake became shoulders that trembled…

“Tell me.” Mycroft repeated even softer.

…And the shoulders that trembled became a body that shook...

“ _Mon roi_ , tell me. Please?”

…the body that shook leaned over to the side away from Mycroft as Greg dissolved into wracking sobs…

…and told…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Non, je ne peux pas.” = “No, I just can’t.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You know what this is, Greg. You know the psychology of this. You’ve studied it. It is all part of his the game. Part of the power play._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NC-R Trigger Warning: If you've read the previous chapters, you already have an idea what's about to be told. Like Mycroft, Sherlock and John "We just know _something_ happened. We…do not know the details." This chapter is where you learn the details and it may be hurtful for some.

**_Three Months Ago…_ **

Greg opened his eyes and stared at the spot on the light paisley print wallpaper.

Various shapes demarked the places photos, art and plaques had once been on the sun faded wallpaper. This had been someone’s home; someone’s life was once lovingly displayed in this room. It was a room that had been emptied somewhat recently for it did not have the stale smell of an old room.

He stared at the spot on the light paisley print wallpaper.

When he first woke up in the room he had taken in all the details he could see, but now saw none of it beyond the paisley wallpaper. All he knew was that the room and the house it was in were somewhere isolated.

He heard no auditory clues to give him a sense of location.

And clearly, no one beyond these walls had heard his screams.

He was borderline hungry for he had yet to be given food. It was a shock to realize he must have been given an enema and purged while he was unconscious, but he was clean. He was blindfolded when no one was in the room and with his circadian rhythms thrown off, he only had a vague sense of time passing.

He stared at the spot on the light paisley print wallpaper.

<><> 

Greg had gone for an evening run. It often helped him to think. The fourth murder was discovered a few days before. All of them happened a week apart on successive days. By this pattern, it meant the next victim would be murdered in four days.

Four days.

Other than establishing a definitive pattern, he and his team were no closer to resolving it than they were after the third. An hour of running later, Greg was exhausted and had no new miraculous insight. He knew was going to have to bring in Sherlock. Greg was just grateful the man had not pulled the “Wrong!” mobile stunt at a press conference again.

John had told him how positively euphoric Sherlock had been at the fourth Cabbie killing. Greg knew Sherlock had to be practically salivating for a shot at this one. The detective inspector decided he’d call the genius after he showered. He knew bringing Sherlock Holmes in on these killings would be like handing sweeties to a toddler, but God help him, he needed the man’s help.

Greg came out of the park, half-jogging in place as he waited at a light. A visual of a toddling young, cherub-faced Sherlock pointing at a decapitated teddy bear cooing “murhdah”, with a waistcoat, short trouser-suited school-aged Mycroft face-palming behind the tyke, made Greg stop and giggle out loud.

“Damn, that’s a beautiful smile, detective inspector.” Someone spoke behind him.

He turned his head and saw as a slightly built man, wearing a sharp gray suit that likely cost more than his monthly mortgage, had stepped up alongside him. The man had dark, slicked back hair and dark very dangerous eyes.

He had only seen one photograph of the man, but Greg recognized James Moriarty and was immediately on edge – too late.

_Merde!_

A van pulled up to the curb. Its door opening before it had come to a complete stop. Strong arms reached out and surrounded him, lifting Greg off his feet even as he felt the jab of a syringe in his neck.

“I am going to just _ruin_ that lovely mood. _Sorry_!” The criminal mastermind sing-songed.

He awakened clothed, face up, but blindfolded and with his ears plugged. He was bound to a bed, a pillow wedged under his hips. His trousers and pants pulled down.

With a dildo inserted in him.

A vibrating dildo.

A vibrating dildo, inserted at the perfect angle.

He had slowly come to with his body already in the process of betraying him. He tried to shift his hips to dislodge the device. He quickly learned he was restrained almost to the point of immobility and that the dildo was strapped inside of him.

The blindfold was taken off in the midst of his first climax and he found himself staring into Moriarty's eyes "Hi!"

Sticky and body trembling, Greg turned his head in shame and discovered the spot on the wall not long after.

<><>

Somewhere, subconsciously, Greg acknowledged movement around him. He felt he should be doing something. Doing anything other than what he was doing at the moment, just lying there, but really what could he do, bound as he was? His wrists were near raw from the ropes as it was.

He stared at the spot on the light paisley wall.

“I never imagined you hid such a decent body under those ill-fitting copper’s clothes. I’m glad to have taken them off of you.” The warmth of the charming Irish lilt did not reach the cold dark eyes that had blindfolded Greg, then had taken a blade and made him feel it as Jim had methodically sliced said clothing from his body. “What do you think?”

His now naked body.

His naked body tied down to one of the softest beds he had ever lain on. His tethering gave him just enough movement to rise to his knees, and be flipped over, but not much else. He had painfully learned the hard way the folly of trying to wrap those tethers around Frankie’s neck.

_Was that yesterday or earlier today?_

He stared at the spot on the light paisley wall.

Frankie Fingers Jaspers – who was big for his age as a child and continued that trend into adulthood. Frankie Fingers who has had a chip on his shoulder when it came to Lestrade, the only cop who ever seemed to catch him for pick-pocketing in his teens. Jaspers who was out on parole for manslaughter, when he accidentally hit a pedestrian while drunk driving. Who was the arresting officer? Greg Lestrade. The two had a near fifteen-year history of animosity and it was time for some payback in the minor criminal’s mind.

Frankie Fingers Jaspers who ran his meaty fingers of a strong hand through Greg’s hair. “I have to admit; he is much better built than I imagined.”

Greg shook his head wildly to dislodge the hands. Jaspers chuckled as those strong fingers then trailed a rough path down his neck, across his shoulders and down his chest. He enjoyed watching as Greg flinched from the touch.

_You know what this is, Greg. You know the psychology of this. You’ve studied it. It is all part of his the game. Part of the power play._

Greg knew this. He really did.

His physiology could not have cared less as his body responded to the touch.

“I know, I know. Book knowledge can never really compare to the real life experience can it?” His captor spoke as if having read his mind. Jim Moriarty commented from a nearby chaise lounge, one leg casually crossed over his expensive suited knee as he watched.

Not for the first time he wondered if he would live through this, in spite of Moriarty’s assurances that he would.

Neither he nor his attackers bothered to hide their faces. Nor their names.

“Enjoying yourself much, Frankie?” Sebastian Moran asked casually.

Frankie’s touch had become rough, his nails dug into Greg’s flesh. “I’ve been wanting to fuck over this copper over for a long time. I never imagined I’d be able to do it like this! Thank you for the invite Mr. Moran.”

“And you Sebs?” Jim purred. Greg imagined the man smiled in the way that sent a chill down his spine. He refused to look at him to confirm.

Sebastian Moran stood shirtless by the side of the bed. An indolent smile graced his face as he took his cock out and slowly masturbated with one hand as he touched Greg's chest. Where Frankie’s touch was more direct, Moran’s touch was soft, gentle. One that almost seemed to be counting Greg's ribs as it continued down his body, fluttered over his abdomen and then went lower.

“Very much, sir. I like when they fight it. And this one is a fighter! It makes it all the sweeter when the body gives.”

He shuddered in utter hatred of the touch even while his body shivered. All the Moran continued to stroke himself. He brought his hand back up and rested it lightly on Greg’s head in warning as the weight on the bed shifted. A reminder of the hurt Sebastian’s hands had inflicted when he beat Greg to get him to release Frankie. Greg knew he had bruised ribs from the beating.

He wanted to pretend the touch belonged to someone else.  He wanted to pretend the touch belonged to damned near anyone else other than the owner of the hands that turned him over.

He stared at the spot on the light paisley wall.

He could not help it as his body tensed when lubed slicked fingers then slid their way between his arse cheeks and fingered his puckered hole again. He gritted his teeth and braced as his hips were lifted and the slicked fingers were replaced with the easy slide of a slicked cock.

Greg was still sore from an earlier round, where he had not been properly lubed or stretched first as punishment for his attempting to strangle Frankie with the tethers. Jaspers was being surprisingly gentle now considering how brutal he was earlier. Regardless he growled the vitriol of his hate for Greg throughout. Greg gritted his teeth as he bore it. He could feel when Frankie was close to the edge, losing control. He screamed when Frankie unexpected yanked out of him just as the man reached orgasm, the wetness falling on his back.

It took a moment for Greg to register the thud he heard was Frankie’s body hitting the floor. His throat had been cut. In shock he realized the wetness he felt sprayed on him was not just semen. Stunned, Greg could not help it as he looked to Moriarty as his entire body shuddered in revulsion.

“He’d talk.” was all the man said as he shrugged in response to the unasked query. Greg did not have time to ponder what that meant as he felt the bed yield to a new weight.

 _“Non!_ S _'il vous plaît!”_

“Oui, I will please.” Sebastian chuckled darkly as he straddled Greg’s body, a slicked hand cupping his balls, "Watch me."

Greg hissed as a well lubed cock slid in. Unlike Frankie, Sebastian knew exactly what to do with his. Greg did not know it if Sebastian had a fixation with pulling hair or if it was him in particular as he grabbed a handful and pulled, hard. Kept a grip on it as he pumped slow. When Greg tried to buck him off, Sebastian snarled, grabbed his hips in both hands and changed the angle. Greg gasped and his body soon betrayed him again as unwanted moans escaped his lips. When Sebastian's lubed slicked hand reached around and stroked him in time with his thrusts Greg pressed his head into the mattress, hating the mounting pleasure even as he grinded his teeth through the pain.  

It was enough to remind him, that while this may be somewhat pleasurable physically, this was in no way supposed to be a good time.

He stared at the spot on the wall knowing he was going to hate light paisley wallpaper for the rest of his life.

“Why?” He had hoarsely cried at some point. He hated himself more hearing Moran’s chuckle as his manipulations brought Greg to orgasm again.

“Why, Detective Inspector, Lestrade?” was the reply from the chair, timed to go along with a deepened thrust as Sebastian he reached his own climax.

“Because I _can.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Non! S'il vous plaît!" = "No! Please!"


	7. Chapter 7

Greg’s eyes were red-rimmed, as he finished.

Words tumbled out, some barely coherent, his voice hoarse near the end.

_I’m a cop!”_

_“How does this happen to a cop?”_

_“How do I face my squad?”_

_“Pourquoi moi? Why?”_

It had not mattered. Somehow he knew Mycroft understood his words as he sat beside Greg and listened. He did not interrupt; he did not ask questions. Though he knew Greg intellectually understood the answers to the first two questions, Mycroft gently voiced the answers out loud for Greg to hear anyway. They were responses Greg himself knew he would have given any survivor in this situation.

_Survivor._

Yes, he survived it. The physical part of it anyway. The mental aspect remained to be seen. Right now there was not a hole in the earth large enough to swallow the immense turmoil running through him as he continued to listen to Mycroft’s words.

“As for how you face your squad: You’ve been doing it for these past two weeks more or less; continue as you were. I’d honestly advise you to get professional help, Gregory. You are going to need more assistance to get through this than what I, Sherlock or John can provide. If you, understandably, do not wish to use the in-house services at Scotland Yard, I can put you in touch with other resources. But as far as your squad goes, your stories are yours to tell when you see fit. If you ever see fit to tell.”

Greg slowly shrugged, he lifted his head not meeting Mycroft’s eyes as he stood. He saw the empty whisky bottle and picked it up, then quickly switched hands from the pain in his wrist.

“I didn’t think this massive headache of mine was just from crying.” Greg looked up into those cool blue eyes at last as Mycroft stood as well, the Iceman’s mask was fully on. “What did you do to me?”

“Apologies. Most likely a sprain. I was actively trying _not_ to break it. Muscle memory. The last few times I did such maneuvers ended in fatalities.” Mycroft responded matter-of-fact. The reality of just how easily he had been manhandled from the sofa to the floor, Lestrade knew it was not idle boasting. Mycroft simply stated his facts.

“Yeah? Who won?” Greg winced, putting the empty bottle under his arm as he cradled the hurt wrist with his good hand.

He felt more than saw Mycroft’s brow as it quirked in surprise.

_God, did I just make a joke?_

Greg took a few steps away, he needed some space.

_What must he think of me?_

_He’s trying to be nice. He does not know how to gracefully get out of this._

_No, Mycroft Holmes does nothing he does not want to do._

“What is it, Gregory?” Mycroft arched an auburn brow at the thoughts he sensed brewing in Greg’s mind.

Greg shook his head slowly in the negative at a total loss of what to do. What to think. He realized then Mycroft answered all of his questions but one. _Why?_

_Why would I be attacked? Clearly Mycroft knows the answer, he does not want to say it. Why?_

_It was evident Moriarty wanted a reaction out of me. No, not me, he wanted a reaction out of…_

“Oh God!” Greg groaned as he stumbled to a side chair and fell in. He doubled over refusing to give in to the nausea that threatened to overtake him.

“Gregory!” Mycroft ran to the kitchen, came back with a pail and placed it in front of the cop. Greg laughed but there was no humor.

“Talk to me. Please!” The minor government official crouched beside him, concern all over the usually calm face.

“This happened to me because of your brother didn’t it?” Greg hissed through his teeth as he rocked in the chair.

“Gregory…” For the first time Greg could recall, Mycroft had not looked him in the eye.

_Mon dieu, I’m right…_

“You’re telling me I was bloody _raped_ because a bloody psychopath wanted to play mind fuck games with Sherlock Holmes! What he wanted to see if Sherlock would notice because somehow Moriarty knew I wouldn’t report it! _Enculé!_ ”

The surprise on Mycroft’s face was fleeting, but evident before the mask dropped into place and Greg knew he was right.

“What? Did this idiot cop surprise you? Didn’t think I was smart enough to figure it out?”

“Gregory, no. That’s not…”

“You found your way in. Find your way out, Mycroft. Don’t come back.”

Mycroft’s mouth closed into a thin line from the scathing look Greg shot him, but he did not move.

“S _'il vous plaît partez, ne revenez pas…_ ” Greg whispered weakly, unable to look at him.

“If you need… you know wh…” Mycroft could not finish the words.

“ _SORTEZ!_ ”

_If you need me, you know where to find me._

He moaned as his mind finished the rephrasing of the recalled words between them from autumn. Mycroft’s face flashed a moment of hurt before the mask fell into place as he gathered his coat and umbrella and left.

Only after Greg heard the door lock as it engaged had he grabbed the bucket and purged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Enculé!” = “Motherfucker!”
> 
> “S'il vous plaît laissez, ne revenez pas…” = “Please leave, don’t come back…”
> 
> “SORTEZ!” = “GET OUT!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catharsis begins.

After weeks of having slept on the couch at home, or the hard cots at the Yard, his back was letting its dissatisfaction with these arrangements be known. Between the Reynold serial killings, an array of mob hits and just the daily demands of being a detective inspector Greg had spent very little actual time in his home. When he came home he was exhausted or just not mentally able to do the one thing he desperately needed to get done: His bedroom.

“You should have said and done something about this much sooner.” was all John Watson had to say to him about it.

Greg had gone out for a pint to watch a game with John. Somewhere in the conversation he mentioned his back hurting. After a several questions of concern he finally admitted to John why he was not sleeping in the bed. He had not given the doctor the details he had given Mycroft, but explained enough. When Greg asked for his help John immediately cleared his schedule to help him take out the furnishings to be donated to a charity shop.

John came over on a Thursday night. By Friday morning the room was cleared out of all furnishings. The room was cleaned and the walls painted by the time Goodwill arrived to pick up the furniture early Friday afternoon. The new bedroom set was scheduled to arrive Saturday morning. He only had one more night on the couch.

John had helped him take the mattress and box spring out of his garage to the rented truck at the kerb. He could not donate those to charity. The mere thought of anyone peacefully sleeping on that when he knew what happened upon them upset him too greatly.

“You’re good with this?” John tilted his head indicating the truck as his taxi pulled up.

“Ya.” Greg had nodded as they stood at the open door of the taxi, “Thanks for your help with everything, John. You’ve been great. But yeah, I kind of need to do it this way.”

“No problem, mate. Glad to be of help.” John waved off as he climbed into the car, turned to the cabbie and gave his address.

Greg went back into the house to shower and change. He looked at the freshly painted bedroom and grimly smiled to himself.

_This time tomorrow there be a new bedroom set in here. Maybe, just maybe, I can get a decent night of sleep again._

His second bedroom, used as an office, was a mess with his clothes and his own furnishings he was keeping. He pulled on a pair of comfortable, well-worn jeans that were torn on one knee naturally, a Scotland Yard sweatshirt, his biker boots and leather biker jacket. He tried to remember the last time he took his Harley out for a long ride. Then he tried to remember the last time he had time for a long ride. It had been too long.

_Maybe Sunday? Let me get this done first._

As habit he peeked through the curtains to the street before exiting. He noted a silver sedan parked at the kerb. He remembered his neighbor down the hall, Steve, had mentioned he was getting a new car.

_Sweet ride, Steve, but those windows are a little too dark for a standard passenger car, they’ll have to go._

Greg grabbed his keys, picked up the bag with everything he needed and opened his front door to the sight of a leggy, buxom blond in a short skirt and low cut blouse under an opened jacket that emphasized those assets very well. He also noted it was a bit nippy outside that afternoon. She had a few lines around her smiling hazel eyes that had not existed when they first met, but he had even more lines. Still, the pert nose, and those dimples he could get lost in, were exactly as he remembered when he had first laid eyes on them years ago.

_Amelia._

“Oh fuuuuck, Greg. You always did look so good when you leathered down. Take me for a ride?”

His ex-wife was in his arms, her legs wrapped around his hips and kissing him before he could think. He dropped the bag as he grabbed her by the waist and bum to keep them both from falling as the momentum of her jump slammed them against his door as his lips found hers. He idly noticed the silver sedan pulled off, but he absolutely noticed the woman was commando.

It was years of reflective habit more than actual desire that he kissed her back. This was how she used to greet him when they were together. He would walk in the door and she would jump him. He loved it when they were in love with each other. He missed it when he was in love with her, but she loved someone else and then someone else after that.

Yes, he was so in love with her then.

He was not in love with her anymore.

Greg didn’t think about it. He just shoved her off. Hard.

She fell backwards into the door frame. He heard her body make contact. He did not care.

“What the fuck Greg?!” She stood and rubbed her head.

“I can ask the same of you! What the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing?” He growled. “What are you even doing here?”

“I, I was hoping to talk to you. I left Malcom. I was wrong – a fool. I missed you. I, I wanted to see if you and I…”

Greg felt his blood boil.

_Are you kidding me?! HOW DARE YOU!_

Concentrating on reigning in his anger, he did not notice as Amelia reached out and ran a hand through his hair before he could think to stop her. She pulled. Hard. Something else that she used to do. Something that he had liked once upon a time.

Once upon a time being until a few months ago.

It had the adverse effect than intended as thoughts of Sebastian Moran hands on his head tore through his psyche. He bit down hard on the instinct to cry out at the memory as Greg took a sharp breath and smacked her hand away.

Amelia moved back quickly when she saw his face.

“I. Could. Not. Care. Less. What. You. Want.” Greg enunciated each word carefully through gritted teeth as he grabbed the door frame behind him with one hand instead of her neck. “Do not come near me _ever_ again. Do you hear me?”

“But Greg...” She smiled as she took a careful step forward. Greg grabbed the door frame behind him with both hands.

“Get away from me, Amelia.” His voice dropped as he tried to focus his rage and pain away her.

Like a deer in headlights she did not move.

“ALLER!”

Greg did not feel when he let go of the doorframe, but he felt the cramp in his fingers as it balled into a tight fist and slammed into the inside wall beside the door.

It was enough.

Whatever she saw in him sent her scurrying down the pavement. He watched her run down the block, get into her car and drive off. Only then did he pull his fist out of the wall, sheetrock and plaster falling to the floor. He stepped inside, closed the door, put his back to it and sank to the floor.

_No. No. No! I’m not letting this ruin my day. I’m not!_

He forced himself from the floor and sighed as he saw the hole in the wall. He went to get the broom and dustpan and cleaned up the mess on the floor. He would fix it when he got back, he needed to get out of there, now. Opening the front door, he picked up the bag he had dropped and headed for the rental truck.

By the time he reached the farm almost two hours later he felt, well not better, but less explosive. Still everything was on a slow simmer and he knew it.

Greg's great-grandfather, several times over, owned a small farm just out of East Anglia. A farm that eventually passed down to his grandfather and finally to his father and uncle. Theo Lestrade may have been born here, but he was a city boy by heart. He ran off for London first chance he had and never looked back. Robert, two years Theo’s junior, followed when he had come of age as well. Robert Lived in London for fifteen years, but visited the farm often and brought his favorite nephew along with him. Robert lived in London long enough to have made an impression on his nephew and only left to take over the farm when Greg’s paternal grandfather became too ill to do so and eventually passed away. Greg himself was as much a city man as his father, but loved the respite being at the farm brought him. He came up at least twice a year to visit his uncle. Anyone who knew the Lestrade family said that while Theo Lestrade may have sired Gregory, Robert Lestrade was his true father even before Theo passed away a few years back. Everything important Greg learned about life, learned about being a decent human being, about being a man in the world came from Robert’s tutelage.

The screen door slammed as Robert came hurrying down the porch steps of the modest farmhouse as Greg pulled up the dirt path into the yard.

_I probably should have called first. He’ll understand._

“Greg! You pup! Twyla called said you were about fifteen away. Said the last time she heard the Rolling Stones blasting from the highway like that it was you. Figured it had to be you now, I didn’t believe her. How’re you doing? You look like bloody hell!”

“Uncle Bob!” Greg turned off the engine and bounded from the truck towards the elder Lestrade. The peaty scents of earth and foliage wafted from the man as he happily allowed himself to be swept into his uncle’s bear hug. Greg felt his emotions about to bubble over in the grasp of the man. He stayed there in the comforting embrace for a few moments longer. He knew Robert sensed the need as his uncle suddenly squeezed him tighter.

_God, I should have come here sooner!_

“Nice artwork. Looks we’re going out back.” The man looked at the items in the back of the truck when Greg let go. “I’ll go get us some beer….”

_No Unc, beer is not going to work for this…_

“I…I can’t stay the night. I have furniture delivery in the morning, but…” Greg shrugged as he resisted the urge to kick at a rock in the path, “…you have anything… stronger?”

Robert stopped and looked to his nephew.

“For me or for you?” Robert asked quietly.

Shoulders hunched in, hands in his jeans pockets, Greg did not look at his uncle, but felt the man’s eyes on him.

Greg kicked the rock.

“Gregory Michael Lestrade, look at me boy.”

Greg did not want to, he knew his eyes had welled up. He raised his head and looked at his uncle anyway. Robert’s eyes were gray where Greg’s were brown, but Greg knew exactly what he would look like in another couple of decades. He prayed no one _would_ need it, but if it had to be, he prayed his eyes will show that much compassion to whomever would need such then.

_Lord knows I need it now._

Robert clapped Greg on the shoulder and then sighed deeply as he headed toward the house, “Bring her around back.”

“Yes sir.” Greg nodded and went back to the truck.

Greg heard when his Aunt Twyla’s pick-up arrived some time later while they set up out back. When she had not immediately come out to greet him as she always had done, he knew his uncle must have called her and told her to not to disturb them when she came home.

The two men sat crossed leg on the ground passing a bottle of scotch between them.

Greg took a healthy swallow and enjoyed the warmth as he began.

“A couple of months ago I was kidnapped by some men. They held me for almost three days...”

He paused as he tried to find the rest of the words. He knew Robert waited patiently, silently, knowing there was more. Greg passed the bottle back, then shook his head not wanting any more. He waited until Robert took a swig and put the bottle down before he spoke again.

“I was… I was raped Uncle Robert.” Greg’s voice was barely above a whisper as he forced the words out. “By different men. Repeatedly.”

He saw as Robert visibly flinched at the words, then breathed deep as he took them in. The silence stretched long as Greg waited. Robert put the cap back on the whiskey bottle, placed it to the side and then turned to face Greg directly. “If you can, tell me.”

Greg nodded and began. As he told his uncle, Greg noted they sat pretty much the way he and Mycroft had sat that night. Being an officer of the law helped here as he used clinical terms to help him get through as he told Robert what had been done to him. He then told his uncle about Mycroft and the limbo of the breakup with a man he was not quite sure he was together with and yet still wanted to be with. He told Robert about Amelia’s sudden appearance and how he nearly lost it when she pulled his hair. Robert asked few questions throughout. Finally, Greg told his uncle exactly where the mattress and box spring came from and thus why they sat at the clearing with the contents from the back of the truck piled in it.

“He broke into your house and did that? Took out your furniture and brought that in? And no one saw when they did that or brought you in?” Robert whistled, “That’s terrifying and terrifyingly impressive.”

For all the rage that had stayed with him as he rode up to the farm, Greg was surprisingly calm by the time he was done and darkly chuckled, understanding the sentiment. “ _Terrifyingly impressive, yet impressively terrifying_ describes the James Moriarty perfectly.”

By then, both men were standing and looked at the stacked pile. The sun was low in the sky. Greg reached into a pocket and pulled out a napkin. He sneered as he balled it, then tossed it onto the pile.

_There you go, Amelia._

“What was that?”  Robert noticed the toss, guessed it had significance to be added to the pile.

“I used it to wipe Amelia’s lipstick from my mouth.  I decided it should join the pile.  _Good riddance to bad rubbish_  – isn’t that the saying?” 

Robert nodded as he passed a makeshift straw torch and his lighter to his nephew.

Greg let his eyes roam lazily over the pile in the otherwise barren clearing they used for bonfires.

_Yeah. This will do._

Greg walked to the edge of the clearing, lit the torch, tossed it high and then stepped back.

He saw his uncle's dark grim smile as the  _nice artwork_  of the Moriarty and Moran stick figures Greg had drawn on the mattress were illuminated as the torch came down.

When the torch landed on the kerosene soaked mattress and box springs, and then flared up with a very satisfying _whoosh_ , he knew that dark grim smile matched his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ALLER!” = "GO!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or it can freak it out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. a week ago I lost the thumb drive that held all of my stories before I had a chance to back it up. There are six chapters between the two WIPs and ideas and plot bunnies that are just *gone*. It's been a few days of mental self-flagellation for the lost work. I finally felt like writing again on Tuesday. 
> 
> Consider this fair warning to my fellow writers out there. Save and back your work ASAP, because you never know.

Greg’s eyes flicked up from his computer as a tall shadow filled the doorframe.

_You knew he’d show up sooner or later._

Greg was not in the least surprised when John Watson appeared at his office door the morning after Mycroft had left his flat as ordered. Mycroft had asked John to check on Greg’s wrist fearing he might have sprained it. Between his school rugby days and police work, Greg has sprained one wrist or the other over the years, knew what it felt like and had it wrapped. Watson merely confirmed what he had already known and rewrapped the wrist properly.

The doctor had come alone that morning. Greg did not ask and John did not volunteer anything as he tended to him. It was not unusual for weeks, sometimes a couple of months to pass without seeing the curly-haired detective. Nor was it unusual for John to sometimes pass through the squad room without Sherlock when working on a case. Sally, being Sally, could not resist giving Greg some grief for a couple of days for falling from his own step stool at home -John’s off the cuff lie when Donovan walked in on the doctor wrapping the wrist, but after that the usual office patterns eventually fell into play.

He had not seen John, Mycroft or Sherlock since then. He could almost forget.

_Almost._

Two weeks ago, the chief inspector selected his team to work with MI6 to take down a few international cartels that were attempting to take toeholds in London criminal scene. It was similar to the Minsk operation last fall, but more widespread. It had Mycroft Holmes written all over it. Thus, it was with surprise, and immense relief, when Anthea and another aide de camp walked in as the intermediary for “Mr. Holmes is currently preoccupied with a departmental issue that requires his direct input for now”.

_One o’clock in the bloody morning and here is Sherlock Holmes at my door._

“Let me guess: bored and in need of cases – even cold ones?” Greg shook his head as he audibly sighed.

“I’ll take that as permission to come in.” Sherlock walked into the office and closed the door behind him. There were other officers working late on the floor, Greg had no idea what either of them were going to say to each other, but he did not need eavesdroppers. Sherlock at least had the grace to look momentarily flushed as those cool green eyes of his scanned him quickly before he took a seat in front of the desk. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have any cold cases?” Sherlock looked hopeful.

Greg smirked, picked up a few folders on his desk and handed them to the detective.

_Oh, it must have really been a slow few weeks at Baker Street._

“You’ve had them waiting?” Sherlock opened a random folder and glanced through it.

“I knew you’d show up eventually.”

“Lestrade…” a rare note of hesitation halted Sherlock’s words.

_Sherlock Holmes – stalling? That’s different._

“Sherlock, look...” Greg took a sip of coffee as he tried to find the words, “I admit you were not my favorite person for quite a few days. And you can’t fault me for it. You _admired_ the bloody maniac for Christ’s sake! For all I know, a part of you still does, but even I know… not for this… not _this_...”

Sherlock started to speak, but Greg raised a hand stopping him. “Just don’t. I… I’m not expecting, nor accepting an apology from you.”

“I am not apologizing. I have nothing to apologize for.”

Greg bit his lip.

_500, 499, 498, 497, 496…_

Usually, Greg started from one hundred when Sherlock was trying his patience. This was not usual and he certainly did not think he’d have to start counting back with the man in the room for less than five minutes.

“Greg, you know me. I find most people irritating, intellectual idiots, barely worthy of my time. As such, I am not one to form...attachments. It breeds _sentiment_.” Sherlock’s face twisted on the word as though it physically hurt him to say it.

_It probably did. 487, 486, 485, 484…_

“Through no fault of your own, you were… _hurt_ … solely because of our association. Not even I want to see someone I consider a friend hurt. So…I _am_ sorry nonetheless, Greg.”

It took everything Greg had for his jaw not to drop. He blinked several times as Sherlock’s words sank in.

_He…. Sherlock…just said he considers me a friend. He means it._

Not long after the Baskerville case, Watson had told him how Sherlock claimed to not have any friends, only John. The doctor had seen Greg’s hurt feeling. He patted Greg on the shoulder and said not to worry, that Sherlock will figure it out and at some unexpected moment he will casually inform Greg of it.

And that unexpected moment just happened.

_I’d ask him to repeat it, but I know how much he hates that._

“Thank you.” He nodded slowly instead, watched as Sherlock fidgeted in his chair.

_A Holmes doesn’t fidget._

_First stalling and now fidgeting. There was more. It was not going to be good._

“Spit it out Sherlock.”

“You’ve shut him out. He’s trying to respect your wishes, but with the joint operation… He does not know how to handle this any more than I do. Actually, he’s handling this worse than I.” Sherlock said at last.

“This…?” Greg questioned carefully.

“He always considered it a disadvantage and I might be forced to agree with him.”

Greg inwardly sighed with relief, this was known territory.

_Caring. Mycroft considered caring a disadvantage._

_But wait…_

Greg frowned as a sinking feeling started to settle badly in his gut.

“What has Mycroft done, Sherlock?”

“He had him brought in for _questioning_. Two weeks ago.”

Anthea’s words came back to him.

_“Mr. Holmes is currently preoccupied with a departmental issue that requires his direct input for now.”_

_Oh bloody fuck!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through Sherlock, he has known exactly who Mycroft Holmes was for years. The man holding a minor position in the British government was anything and everything, but a minor player. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was very cognizant of the immense power held in those manicured hands.

Greg closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into the sockets.

 _“He had him brought in for_ questioning _. Two weeks ago.”_

Lestrade knew exactly who “he” and “him” were and what _questioning_ meant.

_Mycroft! Oh mon dieu, non._

He gave himself a moment’s schadenfreude. He was human after all. Were he completely honest with himself he was also a tad envious he could not be there to get a punch or two in himself. Still…

“Was there just cause?” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head in his hands. Even so he saw the look Sherlock levelled at him.

“Probably not.”

_God DAMN both of you cold blooded Holmes and your penchant for succinctness at the wrong damn time!_

Greg knew Mycroft dealt in a world whose laws did not always follow those that govern Crown and Country. Yet, plucking someone from the streets, even bloody killer psychopaths like Moriarty…

“Sherlock, God! Why would you tell me this?”

“Moriarty put John in a SemText vest and threatened to kill me.”

Greg lifted his head not understanding.

“But you were the straw.”

“Sherlock, I cannot sanction…”

“That’s not my point Lestrade!” Sherlock hissed between his teeth, verdigris eyes wild before he visibly stopped short and took a breath and then another.

Sherlock rarely made an effort to show this much restraint. He was here because of Mycroft.

_This is all about Mycroft. And me._

_But what do I have to do with Mycroft taking Mori…?_

_“But you were the straw.”_

Greg sat back in shock.

_Mon Dieu!_

Sherlock saw when it coalesced on the detective inspector’s face. “Exactly.”

“You’re afraid for him? Afraid that I’ll become an even bigger target – and more important his kryptonite.”

“Lestrade please! I would not go so far as to allude that my brother is Superman. His ego is massive enough. But in essence, yes.”

_Pot and kettle Sherlock, pot and kettle._

_How…? Why…?_

Greg was at a complete loss for words.

“Is it reciprocal? I need to know.” Sherlock sat forward staring at him.

It was always a little disconcerting being under the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes.

“Why are you even asking this?”

“Because he saw you with your ex-wife.”

“What?!” Greg exploded “I’ve only lain eyes on Amelia once since I left her and that was that day she popped up…”

Greg remembered his surprise at seeing his neighbor’s new car was blue when he thought it was the silver sedan with …

“Oh God, the silver car with the tinted windows? That was him, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“The bloody bitch! Not even five minutes at my front door and without even trying she’s ruining my already fucked up life!” Greg slammed his fist onto his desk.

_He left before he saw me push her away and screamed at her to go. All he saw was the kiss!_

Greg groaned. “Christ Sherlock, I know what you brother thought he saw, but I swear to you nothing happened.”

Greg had never felt so much like the ant under the magnifying glass before as he did then under that unflinching glare as Sherlock continued speaking.

“Whether you tell him or not, is between the two of you, I will not tell him. Whether you break this – whatever _this_ is – off or work it out, is between the two of you, I will not tell him. But I will not let my brother do this, go through this for naught. He is not doing this solely because of me, Greg, otherwise this would have happened long ago. No, this is all for _you_.”

“Goddamn you, Sherlock! Had you asked me weeks ago, I would not have been able to tell you who we are or where we are headed in this – whatever _this_ is we have between us. How can I _possibly_ answer you now, after… after… everything?” Greg balled and unballed his fists.

_How can I answer that in spite of my same fears for him, I just can’t let go!_

“Greg, you’ve just said “Who we are…”, “Where we’re headed…” and “Whatever this is we have between us…” All current tense or pointing towards a future. A future _together_.” Sherlock repeated his words back to him softly. “I think you’ve already answered.”

Greg blinked at Sherlock, then rose and went to stand by the window. He gazed out into the London streets below him. The last couple of minutes replayed in his mind.

“Yes, it’s reciprocal.” He closed his eyes, weary and exalted in the revelation. “But I pushed him away, Sherlock. I don’t know how…”

“Stop. I do not want nor care to hear the insipid minutiae of – whatever. I told you. I’m not telling him. You two have to figure your own way out of this conundrum.” Sherlock stood.

“Sherlock, what if I had told you _no_?” Greg turned towards him.

“I’ve seen you in his presence, _before_. I see you now. I knew you would not say no. You needed to know it.” Sherlock said it so matter of fact.

_Can it really be that simple? No._

“I still can’t sanction…”

“Lestrade, there is a plan in place. As for what you can or cannot sanction - remember who my brother truly is. There will be many things you will never know about and ones you may learn of which will happen regardless of _your sanction_.” Sherlock bit off the last words with complete disdain for Greg’s opinion on the subject.

Greg looked back out at the city scene below and sighed. He knew Sherlock was right.

_Enculé!_

After a while he pulled out his mobile.

I understand you have obtained more ER tea. The order came down from there, but the delivery was by some bastion of moronic proportions. – GL

He paused before pressing Send. He really was not telling Mycroft anything he did not already know in that regard. He pressed the button and started typing again.

I’ve been told plans for it are locked in place. I can’t tell you what to do with more ER tea, it’s my place, but not my division - this time. But…should disposal become necessary, try not to forget to clean the delivery area as well and send me the details on 31.4. – GL

Greg paused over _Send_ again. The police officer in him fought with the man in him.

_He’s had Moriarty for two weeks. From Sherlock’s tone he’s not coming out anytime soon – if ever._

He could not stop whatever plans Mycroft and Sherlock had in play with Jim Moriarty. He was in no position to say anything - at least not about this. But if killing Jim Moriarty became necessary, Greg wanted it understood that he knew Sebastian Moran would be next. Regardless, Mycroft could never tell him about it. Not that the Iceman ever would, Greg innately knew this, he just wanted to make it clear to The Iceman he knew.

Through Sherlock, he has known exactly who Mycroft Holmes was for years. The man holding a _minor position in the British government_ was anything and everything, but a minor player. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was very cognizant of the immense power held in those manicured hands. This was far from the first blind eye Greg has had to turn when it came to the Holmes brothers. It was the first time it was in direct relation and conflict to him. It meant living with the knowledge that Mycroft has pulled a citizen from the streets of London. Is likely torturing said citizen, without legal just cause, just because…

_Il m'aime?_

It really was not a question.

Greg knew the man. He knew friendship alone, even potential romance would not have provoked such a drastic response from Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock would not have come to him with this for anything less.

_He loves me!_

“And God help me, I do love him.” Greg whispered in wonder to his Sherlock-less office and pressed _Send_.

 _Understood – MH_ was received a few minutes later.

He could live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may not get it - many countries like the UK use the day/month/year format when writing dates. “…And send me the details on 31.4” is Greg telling Mycroft to let him know on April 31st. As we all know there is no such date – Mycroft understands if he is responsible for the deaths of Jim and/or Sebastian in any way, Greg never wants to know. Let’s be honest - not that Mycroft would have told Lestrade anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

_(Picking up from Chapter 1)_

Greg stood at the white board as he laid out various plans and contingencies for the Scotland Yard portion of the joint take down of several criminal bases. His eyes shifted over to Mycroft who sat, stone faced as always, at the head of his team's side of the table.

_Oh God, how am I going to get through this?_

Mycroft mercifully, or was that torturously, had avoided most of the meetings for the past few weeks in preparation for this new joint venture. Now that they were down to hours before going into action, Mycroft chose to be there in person, with Anthea off to the side, back in personal assistant mode.

_PA my arse, she’s Mycroft’s true aide de camp, not that poser now sitting further down._

Mycroft asked some questions, answered others. Resolved potential holes in the plans that could have caused issues. And granted, the arse of the man had deserved it - took down the chief inspector with a scathing arched brow after a particularly ignorant question. Mycroft only looked directly at Greg’s face, when the detective inspector announced he would be spearheading a team in the operation.

“I thought D.I. Bangol was leading Omicron.” Greg saw the tiniest quirk of a dark auburn brow, followed by an even tinier frown. Were he not looking directly at the man he would have missed it. Even so, he bet no one else in that room would have noticed or understood it for what it was.

_Mycroft had not meant to say that out loud. He was caught off guard by the personnel change._

“Bangol’s mother died overnight. He’s on his way out of the country as we speak. I am the only other trusted D.I. who would not need to be caught up to speed in this short timeframe.” Greg’s breath caught as his brown eyes locked on the Iceman’s blues for a moment. Those blue eyes flicked to an underling further down his side of the table before they met his again, then gave a single curt nod in acceptance of the information.

_He was not informed of the change? He is not happy. Someone’s head is going to roll for that._

His lips quirked until his attention was forced away in response to a new query and the briefing continued a few minutes more before being adjourned. Greg sat at the table’s edge, focused on the various boards, absorbing the new data, making notes. He vaguely noticed when the door closed.

In between making notes, Greg tapped his pen to the table idly…

_\- ..- / -- . / -- .- -. --.- ..- . ... / -- -.-- -.-._

_\-- --- -. / .-. --- ._

_\- ..- / -- . / -- .- -. --.- ..- . ... / - . .-.. .-.. . -- . -. -_

He had not realized was doing it until he heard an answering of his name coming.

_\--. .-. . --. --- .-. -.--_

__Huh?_ _

Greg barely kept his jaw from falling agape as he realized what it meant. He tilted his head askance and listened, familiar, yet not…

_\- ..- / -- . / -- .- -. --.- ..- . ... / .- ..- ... ... .. / --. .-. . --. --- .-. -.--_

_\-- --- -. / .-. --- ._

_[tu me manques aussi Gregory]_

_[mon roi]_

At those last two words he let out the breath he hadn't realized he held.

_Mycroft!_

Greg turned slowly. He had not realized the man remained behind as the room cleared.

_Of course he knows French. And Morse code._

The last time they were alone together Greg was, understandably, upset. He knew he hurt Mycroft however cruelly, and unintentionally, when he ordered the man out of his life. Mycroft gave him exactly what he asked for, to the best of his ability, but work was work. Between Greg's working with Sherlock and the nature of their jobs it was only a matter of time something his brother did or an operation like this was going to put them together again.

Through Sherlock Greg knew Moriarty was released and that he and Sebastian Moran were out of the country for now. Other than that one text exchange concerning Moriarty he and Mycroft had not spoken a word that was not directly work related at all, until today.

Greg knew the British Government was here today, when he did not have to be, for no other reason than to see him personally.

“Grégoire.”

_God, I haven’t heard him say my name like that, before._

Still, he could not yet admit to himself what it could mean. Mycroft's expression was unfathomable as pocketed his pen and he rose from his seat. He picked up the always present umbrella and approached the door.

_Don’t leave! Please!_

He knows he did not speak out loud, yet Mycroft Holmes stopped mid-step, his hand on the door knob and looked to him, his brow raised in unspoken query.

_Say something, Greg. The ball's in your court._

Greg knew the room was not secure. He dared not speak anything, personal. He was also afraid if he opened his mouth he may not be able to shut it. Most of the blinds were open. He dared not do anything obvious.

_So how do I do this?_

Greg approached Mycroft carefully keeping his own face neutral. “This was a good briefing, I’m glad you were able to attend. As always your insight was valuable.”

He stopped in front of Mycroft by the door and slipped his hand under the Iceman’s on the door knob, purposefully intertwining their fingers. His runs his thumb along Mycroft’s, enjoying the warmth seeping through. It feels…

_Right._

_Yes. It feels right._

“Y-yes.” Mycroft’s eyes went momentarily wide as he cleared his throat.

_Mycroft Holmes stuttered?! Oh. My. God._

“I was not particularly fond of the last moment change, but it is the nature of a dangerous job. I prefer the silver quiet in a club that follows a job well done.” Mycroft returned the thumb movement with a slow squeeze of his own. It was the only acknowledgement of the touch, but it screamed volumes.

It felt for all the world like… A kiss.

_Quiet in a club? Diogenes._

_The silver?_ Greg frowned, running a hand over his head, then nearly grinned as it hit him.

_That’s me, idiot!_

_The silver quiet in a club that follows a job well done. He wants to meet in Diogenes when this is over._

“As do I. This has been a beast of an operation and I’ll be happier when it’s laid to rest. There’s a cool peace to be found in the aftermath.” Greg nodded once. They both knew they could not continue to stand like that. Reluctantly, he twisted his hand under Mycroft’s and opened the door slightly. “The sooner our teams get this done, the sooner that peace and quiet can happen. S _'il vous plait?_ ”

“Ce ne sera pas assez tôt.” Mycroft’s lip quirked into a quick smile as he just as reluctantly moved his hand. Greg opened the door completely. He and Mycroft stepped out into the main squad room. “Until then, Lestrade.”

“Holmes.” Greg turned and headed straight to his office, to get prepared for his leg of the operation.

His eyes landed on his desk calendar. There are what looks like random dots on a page for a couple of days hence. It was for his third appointment with his therapist. He was not feeling better yet, and that’s a bad thing, but his therapy has only just started after all. At least he was not feeling worse and that’s – okay.

Greg looked at the hand that touched Mycroft’s and curled it into a loose fist as if to better hold the memory of the feel of the Iceman’s hand. What he was feeling, was something that he has not felt in weeks - a true spark of _hope._

 _And that’s a very good thing._ _N'est-ce pas?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ..- / -- . / -- .- -. --.- ..- . ... / -- -.-- -.-. = tu me manques Myc = I miss you Myc
> 
> \-- --- -. / .-. --- . = mon roi = my king
> 
> \- ..- / -- . / -- .- -. --.- ..- . ... / - . .-.. .-.. . -- . -. - = tu me manques tellement = I miss you so much
> 
> Ce ne sera pas assez tôt = It will not be soon enough.
> 
> N'est-ce pas? – Is it not?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...23, 22, 21…  
>  _Sherlock and hair lines. Hair lines? That makes no sense!_  
>  His mind raced frantically in the seconds that remained as he tried to remember.  
> ...5, 4, 3…  
>  _Hair line… trigger… wire… bomb? BOMB!_  
>  “ABORT!” Greg screamed.  
> 0

Greg’s eyes itched behind the goggles. He was never really comfortable wearing them, but understood the necessity. It was controlled chaos as he and his team prepared to burst into the target location. He was elated, if the intel gathered was proved correct – and he had no reason to believe it was not, considering the source - the take down of this building will be the destruction one of the biggest Meth labs Lestrade had ever seen.

_One less of these pumping filth on London’s streets._

Greg took in details of the scene as he mentally compared them to the most recent notes and photos last seen. The ground floor housed an auto shop. Their targets would be upstairs. He signaled a few in direction and then signaled the remaining to follow him, leaving Donovan in the mobile van as the go between to Communications housed in Whitehall.

He had been to the communications room in Whitehall a few times for cases, with and without Sherlock, and was always impressed by it. Greg imagined Mycroft in his waistcoat-suited glory as he stood at the center of the observation dais, elevated a few feet above the fray, observing the wall of monitors. The Iceman would have wanted to be in the thick of it for any rapid responses that may occur.

_Even Mycroft has to feel a little excitement as all the pieces of an intricate domino setup were laid out before him._

_All just waiting for the Iceman to give that first little push._

_Omicron – Lestrade – NSY – London East  
_Delta – Ward – NSY – London West__  
Alpha – Evans – MI6 – Berlin  
Epsilon – McKinnon – NYPD – New York City North  
Zeta – Galvan – DHS – New York City South  
Omega – Arianne – CIA – Washington D.C.  
Xi – Nakamura – MI5 – Okinawa  
Nu – Ramirez – LAPD – Los Angeles And so on...

Those were only the ones he could easily remember offhand.

Some operations were happening in daytime, like his, others were happening during the night, but all were operating as one strike, globally. None of the targets would have a chance to warn any of the others. Greg knew Mycroft would have had all the team code names, the team leads, their affiliations, their locations and their corresponding time of day memorized within seconds of their creation.

There were seventeen teams. At least three teams on each continent except Antarctica.

“Because who would want to fuck with Antarctica?” Greg had overheard as one of the agents cracked earlier when someone from Melbourne had joked about the lack of an operation there. Mycroft and Anthea flicked eyes at each other. Greg knew there was a story there.

_Who indeed? I’m going to have to ask Mycroft about that one day. See what he says, if he can say anything._

_Maybe when I see him at the Diogenes later._

There was a flurry of furtive activity in his earpiece among all the teams as they moved into positions to wait for the go signal. He pulled himself from his musings, back into the operation.

Greg knew the closed-circuit cameras inside the building were on a one hour loop. Still he and his group clung close to the wall as he visually scanned the streets that lead up to their target building. He could not help but stare at the sewers. Naturally, Chief Inspector Ahlers questioned it. Sally knew the reason and tried to make a joke to deflect it, but Greg knew the man was an arse who quickly shut down their joking. Greg felt the air around him tense as he said the name of the partner he had before Sally Donovan. The partner he lost when a sewer bomb took out several NSY and Metro officers. The ensuing silence from the table was all he needed to hear.

_I bet that shut you the fuck up, twat!_

He knew Mycroft did not like Ahlers and could imagine him giving the chief inspector the patented glare that made him the Iceman. It brought a smirk to him as they crept low along the wall. Greg had split the team into two groups and then flipped a coin. His group Omicron A were headed for a side door, while another team, Omicron B, won the flip and headed for position in front. As time closed in, it was near church quiet on his level. The only sound was the low, but excited chatter as other teams confirmed their positions in his earpiece and the sounds of the streets in the distance.

They came to a locked door, but he had expected as much. Glock in hand, he checked the straps on his Kevlar vest once more then signaled Lt. Daniel Marcus, who carried the battering ram, into position. He raised his fist in preparation to give the move signal when his eyes lighted on a faint silver strand barely seen along the shadows of the door.

_I’ve seen that before, but where?_

It gnawed at him, it was important, he just could not grasp why.

59, 58, 57...

_Merde!_

He heard the countdown as it began. He had less than a minute before all teams went into action.

_Sherlock! It has to do with Sherlock._

...23, 22, 21…

_Sherlock and hair lines. Hair lines? That makes no sense!_

His mind raced frantically in the seconds that remained as he tried to remember.

...5, 4, 3…

Still looking at the wire, Greg tapped Marcus on the shoulder and braced himself as the man placed his hands on the trigger.

_Hair line… trigger… wire… bomb? BOMB!_

“ABORT!” Greg screamed just as Lt. Marcus released the battering ram.

0


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft’s eyes whipped to the main screen. The one working Omicron visual filled the monitor. A shaky downward view of Sally Donovan’s knees in the dirt, debris and blood on the ground as she sobbed. She held someone’s hand in her lap.
> 
> A man’s hand.
> 
>  
> 
> _That is Gregory’s hand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter how I tried to move away from this Mr. Holmes, the elder, kept speaking to me. So flipping the eyes and POV to Mycroft for this chapter.

Mycroft did not often avail himself to Communication, preferring to let Anthea come glean whatever information needed. Today, he had to be there. Though he trusted her completely to handle this, this was too widespread to leave to one set of eyes to chance.

And he would not lie to himself.

_I do love this._

Alpha - 1-4 Beta - 9-12 Zut - 13-16 Delta - 17-20 Epsilon - 21-24 And so on...

There were eleven teams total. He had the team code names, the team leads, their affiliations, their locations globally and their corresponding monitors memorized within seconds of walking into the room. Some screens showed operations in daylight, some were operating by moonlight, but all operating as one strike. None of the targets would have a chance to warn any of the others.

There was a flurry of activity among all screens as the teams moved into positions. It mirrored the level of activity in the room as each team had contacts inside. On the main monitors, the scene from Team Kappa, the furthest away by location was duplicated for the moment, but any team could be placed there at call. 

Mycroft looked at his pocket watch.

_So far so good. Everyone is nearly in position._

His eyes swept over the monitors in a steady pattern. Except for one where his piercing gazed lingered over a little longer with each sweep...

Omicron 5-8. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's team -  Scotland Yard - London East.

He idly sipped the tea placed in front of him mostly to give his hands something to do other than tap on the desk as his eyes flicked to the Omicron panels again.

Lestrade had a camera on the side of his goggles. As with all the team leads, they were seeing things from his view as well as two others, plus an overall outside view of the target buildings. Lestrade's view was steady as he methodically swept over his surrounding area. Doors, windows, streets, sidewalks, even sewers.

"Lestrade why on Earth are you looking at the sewers?' Henry Ahlers, a Chief Superintendent at NSY and Lestrade's immediate superior called through the microphone.

Mycroft bit his lip to keep from audibly groaning. Anthea's eyes flicked to him, his personal dislike of the man well known before he became Lestrade's immediate boss - Mycroft refused to say Lestrade's superior for the oafish man most certainly was not. Ahlers dislike of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was well known.  They had different methodologies, aka Greg was not a yes man to Ahlers inane micromanaging. Lestrade was a known name among NSY for a reason. His solved cases ratio was still one of the top in the City, and that's with the removal of any cases where he had Sherlock's assistance. Still, it seemed the chief inspector insisted on trying to undercut Lestrade at any given opportunity, like now. Had the goldfish taken two seconds to think first he would have realized why.

"Lt. Eric Madison, or has he been forgotten already?" Lestrade's voice was cold through the speakers. It was downright glacier as he added, "Sir."

He wished Lestrade could have seen the man as he turned crimson. No, none of them were soon to forget the footage of the officer directing traffic around a three-car pile-up when a homegrown terrorist bomb hidden in a sewer grating went off.

"Idiot!" Anthea whispered under her breath.

Mycroft’s slight “Hmm.” was his only acknowledge of having heard her, given his otherwise bored expression. He knew she understood he was in complete agreement.

He looked at his pocket watch again as all teams gave their ready.

_Perfection._

Even he could not deny the excitement that thrummed through him as he signaled Anthea. Mycroft rapidly scanned all monitors again as she gave the call out to all teams and began the countdown. There were nervous, excited movement on all monitors except one – its stillness caught Mycroft’s eyes and he focused on it.

Mycroft lifted the porcelain pot to pour himself another cup of tea.

_Omicron 5 – Lestrade’s view. What has captured Gregory’s attention?_

He did not notice as the same teapot slipped from his hands and crashed to the table when Lestrade’s desperate yell sounded in his ear.

Only Anthea’s sudden movements made him aware its contents had splattered as Mycroft stared at static of the four suddenly blank monitors that should have been Omicron’s various view.

_No. Do not think it. He is alive. He is alive._

It was a cascade of silence that engulfed Communications as the shock of the Omicron team spread throughout the room. The only sound coming from the speakers were of the other teams currently clueless as to what happened. Mycroft took the panic that wanted to scream and dived into his mind palace.

_He is alive... He is alive..._

He felt three taps on his wrist, a pause and then three more taps. It was the signal his family used to bring him out when he was deep in his mind palace and they needed him to come back quickly. He blinked, momentarily confused to find that he was not with family.

_Anthea._

She would be the only person who would dare touch him. The only person in the room whom Sherlock, for it had to have been his brother, who would have taught how to bring him out in an emergency. He gave the woman a curt nod as he came into himself again. He had work to do.

"Monitor your teams! Do NOT tell them, report in!" Mycroft's voice snapped out like a whip across the room which immediately became a chaos of noise again.

_He is alive. He is alive. He is alive._

"I need eyes on Omicron NOW!" He roared. Anthea's head snapped up as she met his eyes. He knew in that instant she saw his panic and gathered why. Her eyes widened a fraction in surprise, but it was enough as she ran to the Omicron table and snatched the headset from the chief superintendent's head, putting it on.

Ahlers reached up to grab the headset back grabbing her hand. Mycroft's eyes went wide able to appreciate what was soon to be Ahlers pain, having made that mistake only once with her.

Anthea snatched Ahlers’ arm, twisted it painfully behind the man and slammed his head to the desk as she spoke. All with no hint in her voice as to what was happening around her.

"This is Communications to Omicron. Communications to Omicron. Donovan. Munoz. Harvey. Celeste. Do you copy?"

“This is Omicron base.” Sergeant Erick Munoz' voice came through choked with emotion. "You have what we see, Communications. Sergeant Donovan took off, sir. She's headed for the blast. Agent Harvey and Lt. Celeste are on her heels. I’m trying to get what visual and audio I can up. "

"Good, Munoz. Emergency services are in route. Give us something as soon as you've got it." Anthea's voice was calm. The only clue to her agitation was the staccato of her short nails on the table. She took a breath and released Ahlers from under her hand. He took the headphones offer by another team member.

"Roberts, give me aerial." Mycroft turned his attention to another tech, “Help Munoz get those drones up ASAP.”

“Already on it, sir.” Roberts frown and rapid typing gave veracity to his words.

_He is alive. He is alive. He is alive._

Mycroft forced himself to not look at the Omicron monitors, letting Anthea do what he could not as he took in information from the other teams. It was enough to distract him as he gave orders.

“GREG!” Sally Donovan’s tear choked voice came through. He could hear her running.

“Munoz, we’ve got audio on Donovan. Keep them coming.” Anthea confirmed.

It was oddly quiet save for her  tearful breaths for a moment before there were discernable words again,

“Shhh… It’s okay…Save your strength…”

Mycroft slowly lowered himself into his chair, knowing if he did not sit while he had control he was likely to fall into it instead. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, his face neutral while he listened. The other voice was weak, undiscernible over Sally’s crying and the sounds around them. Mycroft lowered his eyes to the table from the other distractions around him and tried to focus on what he heard. Sally sobbed comforting words to whomever it was she spoke with, but try as he might Mycroft, unless she said a name, he could not tell with certainty if it were Greg.

Anthea gasped as Donovan’s goggles came online, “Monitor 8 main screen, now.”

Mycroft’s eyes whipped to the main screen. The one working Omicron visual filled the monitor. A shaky downward view of Sally Donovan’s knees in the dirt, debris and blood on the ground as she sobbed. She held someone’s hand in her lap.

A man’s hand.

_That is Gregory’s hand._

Sally held the hand her partner, her boss, her friend as she slowly rocked.

“No, don’t try to move... I will… I promise… No…”

“Omicron Drone 1 online.” Mycroft heard Marcus speak. Anthea immediately had the image sent to split with Donovan’s view on the main screen.

“Jesus Christ!” Someone exclaimed looking at the scene.

What had been a three-story warehouse that stretched half a city block was a fire blazed rubble.

Fire and thick black smoke and debris.

And blood.

And bodies.

They could see fire trucks and ambulances come onto the scene, personnel jumping into action before their vehicles have come to a complete stop.

Mycroft heard as Anthea ordered the drone to hover mode once it found Donovan and Lestrade.

It looked down on Sergeant Salome Renee Donovan as she grasped the hand in her lap tightly to her chest, raised her head to the heavens and then screamed in heartbreaking anguish.

It looked down on Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade who unblinkingly looked up at a sky he could no longer see.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " For two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, you left me, and my world collapsed"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the out poor of love and tears on the last chapter. My sincere apologies to those whose hearts I broke, let us all take a cleansing breath and begin to heal with this chapter.

Greg’s eyes slowly open to the view of an off-white ceiling.

_I… I’m alive!_

_Right. I’m alive._

He had to cough, but it hurt. In fact, everything hurt. He did not know it was possible to hurt so much, in so many places, all at once. Even his roughest football matches had never left him feeling as hurt as he did lying there. Then again, his roughest football match had only left him with a broken tibia.

This hurt so much more.

He started to shift when he realized he was in restraints.

_Enculé!_

He pulled hard at the tethers as his mind dropped him in the very last place he ever wanted to be.

_No!_

Memories of Sebastian Moran tore through his psyche.

_No! No!_

“Lestrade?”

He turned his head and there it was: light paisley wallpaper.

“NO!” Greg yelled in panic.

“Lestrade. GREGORY!”

Greg pulled against the restraint about to yell again when one arms sprang free.

“Gregory please. It’s okay.”

The call of his name pierced through the panic. Only three people call him by his full first name and the voice did not belong to his uncle nor his grandmother.

He felt it as his other arm released. The real world came back to him.

He remembered his bruised ribs that hurt with each breath, a sprained wrist and multiple contusions received from his impact with the ground from the bomb blast. Of the fourteen members of Omicron, six survived and of that six only the four in the van escaped unscathed. Greg and a MI5 agent were the lucky ones who will be returning to work, eventually.

“Myc…? Mycroft…?”

“Yes, Gregory it’s me. I was afraid you would panic waking up this way.”

_At least I remember it on my own, now._

The first couple of days, each time he woke up he was disoriented and had to be told where he was and why. Yet each time there was one thing he immediately recognized and reached out for - Mycroft. Greg had no idea how the British Government was by his side each time he awakened. Nor had he cared as long as Mycroft was the first thing he saw.

Greg could not help the cry that escaped him as he launched himself at Mycroft with relief, then gasped as pain hit him anew.

Mycroft arms went to his shoulders and pushed gently “It’s okay, Gregory. Your ribs. Lie back down.”

A nurse came into the room just as he was laid back again, “Is everything okay? His vitals spiked.”

“Yes. He woke up to find himself restrained and panicked. He will be better in a moment.”

Greg saw how the nurse blanched as Mycroft shot her a look that said _I told you_ as clearly as if he had spoken them. Greg waved a hand weakly, the one that was not bandaged, letting her know he was okay. She gave a quick nod and left.

“Thank you. Come here.” Greg reached out with his good hand, grasped Mycroft’s hand and pulled him closer until he sat on the edge of his hospital bed.

“You know you’ve thanked me each time you’ve awakened.” Mycroft sighed as though put upon, but Greg knew better.

“I’ve appreciated it each time.” Greg interlocked their fingers, “Mycroft, I… I know I told you to leave. And I appreciate that you gave me space, but I do not want to be without you anymore…yet I don’t want to be your Kryptonite. I need you and I’m scared for you and I know I’m wrong and I’m being selfish because I still… I…. I don’t know if …I can…”

The words had fallen unbidden, they were not at all what he thought  to say, but they were out now.

_I don’t know if I can be touched in that way and not freak out. I’m afraid... What if I can’t…?_

Greg shuddered and turned to the window, unable to look at Mycroft.

“Yes, I gave you space, but I never left you. I think you know that now.” Mycroft placed a finger under Greg’s chin and turned his head back around.

“Why?” Greg did not mean to let that slip out, but once released he continued. “Why would you wait for me? Why would you _want_ to?”

Mycroft cupped his face, his thumb stroking along Greg’s cheek before lowering it.

“Because I know, though it does not feel like it, how you feel will not last forever. You are going to _want_ again.”

Something in the way Mycroft said the words gave Greg pause. Mycroft held his gaze and Greg _knew_.

_Oh Christ! You do know._

“When?” He whispered as he then cupped Mycroft’s face.

“Early in my career, when I had to do the leg work to prove myself. My fourth mission. The only people who know are Sherlock, not having a serial killer to distract him, deduced it a day after my return. A week afterward, Lady Smallwood was out on her own mission and encountered one of the party who apparently _bragged._ ” Mycroft visibly flinched at the word, “She put three and me together. I was still in the hospital recuperating from the injuries I had admitted to, when rumors reached me that she emasculated and neutralized three men not on the dossier for her own mission. She never gave an explanation, but I knew when I saw the report. It was a good ten or so years later before I finally got her to admit it to me. I’m still partially mad I didn’t get the chance to exact the price myself and partially grateful to know someone cared enough to avenge it. It was the first time someone, who was not family, had done something for me that did not have a price tag.” Mycroft’s face was ever it’s neutral mask, but Greg had learned how to read Holmes. He saw the slight cracks in the façade. Mycroft reached up and took the hand cupping his face and lowered it to his lap. “And now you.”

His eyes had not left Greg’s, but Greg could see Mycroft had left him and unlocked a door somewhere in his mind palace. He let the memory surface. His hand that held Greg's gently at first, had slowly increased in pressure.

It was then Greg recalled, Mycroft Holmes may choose to delete something, but he does not forget.

 _He never forgets_ anything _, oh god!_

Greg understood Mycroft was letting him see this. He bore witness as Mycroft flinched in the telling of the memory. His jaw tensed and his grip on Greg’s hand tightened as he fought with it.

“Stop, Mycroft, stop.” Greg squeezed the now trembling hand in return, brought it to his lips until it stilled.

“You never went to therapy, did you? That is why you suggested it so fast to me.” He asked gently.

“I did. Years later, when I had finally convinced my handlers that I can serve better behind a desk. By then I had figured out my own way to handle it.” Mycroft nodded slowly. “I chose not to delete this. Still I, for lack of a better phrase, I wrapped it, boxed it and placed it deep in a hole in the back of the cellar, so I could function.” Mycroft’s other hand had balled into a fist on his thigh.

_You are not functioning right now._

“But you just accessed it quickly. It has been more to the forefront. I remind you of it constantly. _Nique!_ I’m sorry, Mycroft. I’m so sorry! I had no idea.” Greg reached out and caressed the fist.

“I did not want to leave when you screamed at me to go, but I had to because for the first time in decades the memories resurfaced. And they did so with a vengeance. I knew I could not stay and help you with that jinn about to fly out of the bottle.”

Greg gently pulled on Mycroft’s fingers until the hand relaxed against his thigh again.

“Can you put it back, now?”

“Who is to be helping whom here?” Mycroft scoffed mildly.

“Isn’t this how it’s supposed to work? Sometimes me. Sometimes you. We help each other, yes?”

Mycroft turned his cool gaze on Greg.

_Yes, I know what I said. There is still a “we”, an “us”, yes?_

The Iceman stared at him for a long moment. His lip quirked as he then nodded. “Yes.”

Somehow, Greg knew that one word also answered the question that was unspoken.

Mycroft closed his eyes took a breath, then another and yet another.

He was gone much longer than when he brought the memory to surface. Much longer. Greg often wondered just how detailed was Mycroft’s mind palace. He had the feeling the answer was _very_. He would have to ask him someday.

_Someday…_

Greg remembered Sherlock’s words to him:

_[“Greg, you’ve just said “What we are…”, “Where we’re headed…” and “Whatever this is we have between us…” All current tense or pointing towards a future. A future together.”_

_“I think you’ve already answered.”]_

When Mycroft’s eyes looked upon his again the pain was still there, but pushed to the outer reaches and fading. “Your brain is different. You will not forget totally, but some details will wane over time. You learn to move past the physical and eventually the emotional pain. And you will _want_ again. Yet, I am just as selfish in hoping that when you do, it will be me you want.”

Greg didn’t think about it. He simply leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s.

Mycroft at first froze, then returned it. Greg could tell Mycroft had gauged everything, reading him more than returning the kiss. Greg pulled back.

“I promise it will be you, because it already is you, okay? But perhaps we can try it without the hospital breath next time?”

“Good to know on the first part. As for the second part, I do sincerely apologize for offending you.” Mycroft arched a droll brow, for he certainly was not the one with halitosis. 

Greg snickered as he leaned back and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, taking careful breaths as his body reminded him he was not whole.

He looked to Mycroft when he heard more then saw him shudder. It was Mycroft who leaned forward for the kiss. Greg felt it this time as Mycroft gave himself to it, but Greg felt something deeper – felt a need with it. It took a moment for him to realize the wetness on his cheek were not his tears.

“My…?” Greg gently pushed the man back, stunned to see the trail tears fall from the British Government’s eyes.

“I… I am sorry. The way you leaned back and looked up just then… I… Apologies.” Mycroft angrily brushed the tears away as he shook his head.

“Mycroft... What is it?” Greg sat up worried, his pains momentarily forgotten.

“Nothing.” Mycroft shook his head again as though shaking off a ghost, yet Greg could feel his body tremble.

“Mycroft… Tell me. Please?”

“The drones… we had aerial. I saw you… on the ground. Donovan screamed, then started CPR. Rescue took over when they arrived, but…they, they lost you too. For two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, you left me, and my world collapsed.” Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line

_Drones? Lost me? Left you?_

Greg frowned, then it all clicked as he realized what it meant.

_I died…?_

_I died._

_I died and for two whole minutes and twenty-eight seconds Mycroft had helplessly witnessed it via a drone in Communications. Christ!_

“For the first time I frightened Anthea, truly frightened her. She was the only one in Communications who knew I had clocked out. Apparently, I continued working, but… I was not there. She got me to a secure office and called my brother. When I fully returned I was here with Sherlock. He knew I would want to be here. I have seen a lot of death, but never… Never…” Mycroft ran a gentle hand down Greg’s arm.

“Love no! Don’t. Delete that! I’m here now. I’m here. I’m with you. I’m _here_! Delete that _please_!” Greg begged. Mycroft’s head spun to him and Greg froze under the scrutiny.

_What did I just do?_

“What did you just say?” Mycroft asked at the same time.

Greg sat back, played it over in his head and smiled as it came to him. “I called you Love, because, well - I love you. Did you not get my message?”

Mycroft frowned in a way that clearly said _what message?_ just as the door to the room opened.

“Your exact words to Donovan were “Tell Holmes I love him and I’m sorry I didn’t say it when I had the chance.” She was sniveling. It took three tries to tell it to me. I think it took at least that many tries to disinfect my coat of her snot. She also gave me quite the stern warning that I better make you happy for she would risk her career and her life to _end me_ if I broke your heart.” Sherlock raised a brow as he scrutinized Mycroft.

Greg knew Sherlock saw the remaining tears on his brother’s face.

“Of course, she would think it meant _you_.” Greg groaned loudly diverting attention, “She has no reason to believe otherwise.”

He chuckled at the thought of Donovan threatening Sherlock. Chuckled more at her threatening Mycroft.

“And you did not think to pass along that message because…?” Mycroft sighed annoyed.

“Because once we knew Lestrade would live I knew you would rather hear it from his lips and not as a death bed confessional. I would have told had he actually died.” Sherlock took off his coat and plopped down in a visitor’s chair, “Besides, I have known that he loves you since you held Moriarty. Apparently, as much as you do love him, and I’ve known that since before the holidays.”

Mycroft groaned loudly as Greg did everything not to let his jaw drop.

“Damn you to hell and back.” Mycroft looked like he was five seconds from beating his baby brother to a pulp. He pinched the bridge of his nose instead.

“What?” Sherlock looked at them both with confusion sensing the tension.

“Like your brother I would have preferred to hear it from his lips directly and not via some brotherly snipe confessional, but I’ll take it.” Greg found his voice. “Glad you came by. Now get out.”

Greg could tell Sherlock actually _looked_ at them this time. How they still held hands. How Mycroft only looked at Greg while Greg shot daggers at the younger Holmes. He saw when the _oh!_ moment formed on younger man’s face. To his credit Sherlock did look contrite for all of .2 seconds before his normal scowl was back in place. He stood, picked up his coat and left the room without another word. Both men let out a sigh as the door closed behind him.

“How the hell does John put up…?” Greg began.

“I do not fucking care!” Mycroft snarled.

Greg’s blinked in utter surprise.

_Oh, he is PISSSED!_

“Do you kiss your mum with that mouth?” Greg could not help himself, humor being his go to when caught completely off guard by a Holmes brother.

Mycroft looked at him, blinked and then snorted.

“Not in the manner of which I am about to kiss you.” The Iceman stated before he did exactly that.

And this kiss felt – _right_.

It felt so right.

_We just might get through this after all._


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took a deep breath and forced himself to do it.  
> Greg looked upon Frankie Jaspers’ month’s dead body one more time. Then his eyes automatically turned and found the spot on the light paisley wallpaper.

Greg closed his eyes, pushing the heels of his palms into the sockets in an attempt to alleviate his burgeoning headache until the paracetamol kicked in. He was awakened at the crack of dawn to two murders in tunnels of two Underground stations. That was separate from the jumper at a third station. It had been a _day_ and it was only a quarter of two in the afternoon when the call came in for yet another homicide. By ten it seemed like a third of the shift was still at their desks when he himself called it a night. He was in route to drop Sherlock off at Baker Street when the next call came in.

Teens looking for a place to party found a decomposed body in Old Miller’s home. The other homes in the area were purchased and torn down at least four years previous. The Old Miller home was one of the last hold outs from a corporate buyout of the waterfront area. Earnest Miller had become something of a media darling as the sole stalwart to the system, when the old man said on national television, he was born in that house and he was dying there. They (the corporation) could have the house over his dead body. As an act of pure hutzpah he had it put in his will. The old man died several months ago. The citizens wanted greenspace left in the spot in tribute to the curmudgeon. The corporation agreed and now the holdup was over design and the house still stood abandoned for the moment.

As soon as he pulled up to the area it gave him such horripilation he paused.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock gave him a look.

“Nothing… Just a weird feeling…?” Greg shook it off, but still stalled as he spoke with the Metro cops cordoning off the scene first. 

“His throat was slit and the body dropped on the spot from the looks of it.” Greg heard Donovan speaking as he entered the room with Sherlock and froze in place.

_Enculé! No!_

“The blood splatter is off though. There was something here. Furniture? A bed maybe?” Donovan pointed at empty space on the floor. “Do we know who he is? Oh, look who’s here. Hey boss. Ready to start your guesses, Freak?”

Greg took a strained breath as Sherlock flicked his eyes to him before stepping forward to examine the body. He then looked around the room and finally laid his cool green gaze on Greg who barely registered as pale green eyes focused on his. He was vaguely aware someone asked him a question, but he simply could not answer.

_No. No. No._

“The tattoo on the back of his hand identifies him as one of the Irish gangs.” Sherlock looked at the body and spoke to Greg, ignoring Donovan. “ _I guess_ he has been dead around three months going by the level of decomposition. I _guess_ there was furniture in here. They were moved post mortem. I _guess_ one of the movers accidentally dragged his foot through it. You can see over there where he wiped the blood from his shoe. Why he, you ask? Look at the size of the boot print I _guess_ it’s a man’s 13. While there are women with big feet, at this size, carrying furniture I lay odds on male. I _guess_ the furniture was moved within hours of the murder for the blood to be tracked.  No trial marks. Single slice right in the jugular. A cut throat instead of shooting him? I _guess_ it someone proficient in using them. Someone who likes… _knives_.” Per usual when explaining deductions Sherlock’s voice had sped up until he reached that last word. Then it suddenly slowed as he rose and walked over to Greg. He flicked his eyes over the dead man and then back to Greg.

Greg shoved his hands in his coat pockets, dug his nails into his palms even as he bent to look at the body. It was not a pretty sight, but that was not what made Lestrade sick to his stomach.

_Christ! That’s exactly who I knew it would be._

_No! No! No!_

“Excuse me, I just remembered I need to make a call, but it’s just _a guess_.” That one was aimed directly at Donovan as Sherlock turned in a graceful move, took out his mobile and left the room.

“Irish? I haven’t seen anything from that faction on a bulletin in a while.” Greg knew that was his voice that spoke, he recognized it, but he had no idea how. He forced his eyes from the body and looked at Donovan who nodded in agreement with him.

“Why is the Freak even here?” Donovan rolled her eyes at Sherlock as he left the room. “Nothing worth his interest here. But you know what I th…”

“Stop calling him that.” Greg said between gritted teeth in a tone that brooked no argument “And yes, I know exactly what you think about him. This is a weird one and he specializes in weird. Unless you already know who cut his jugular? We can close this case, then?”

“Boss. Come on…” Sally started to speak when Sherlock’s voice was heard.

“For God’s sake Anderson! There are maggots in that room with more testicular fortitude and more brain matter!”

Donovan gave Greg a puzzled look then she turned her attention to the forensics team as they arrived on the scene.

Greg’s mobile pinged.

If that is who I think that is, I think you need to get out of that room. – SH

I have a job to do! – GL

You can’t do this, Greg. – SH

That Sherlock typed his proper name should have been a warning, but Greg had already started to descend and it did not register.

I’m here doing it, aren’t I? – GL

No. – SH

The word reverberated in his mind.

_No. No. No._

_No! No! No! NO!_

_NOOOOOOOOOO!_

“Boss?” Donovan looked to him worried, the call of his name breaking the panic about to set in.

“Sal you’re right. This is pretty cut and dried and my head is pounding. Take this one. You’re good?” Greg kept his eyes on Donovan’s afraid to look anywhere else for the moment.

“Yeah, I’m good. Go ahead. Catch you at the squad room.” She gave him a look that said volumes, but nodded. She knew him well.

Donovan walked up close to him, her soft words only for him to hear. “Greg, you’ve shut me out. I don’t know what…”

_Nique, she knows me too well._

“Sal, I haven’t shut you out. You haven’t done anything – I swear. There’s nothing for you to know. I… I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Greg knew she wanted to say more, ask more, but there were too many people around. Greg gave her a closed lipped smile as he tilted his head towards the door “Let me go before Sher….”

“Lestrade!”  Sherlock bellowed from down the hall, closer than he was before.  Greg knew he had about a minute before the evil genius came in after him.

“Yes, please go and by all means take him with you.” Donovan waved him off.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to do it.

Greg looked upon Frankie Jaspers’ month’s dead body one more time. Then his eyes automatically turned and found the spot on the light paisley wallpaper before leaving the room.

He walked past Sherlock and went straight to his car.  He did not so much as turn his head, when the curly haired detective climbed into the passenger side. He was grateful Sherlock said nothing as he wrangled his emotions together before he drove off.

They rode for a few minutes before Sherlock broke the silence.

“I have to ask: do you know if you have any DNA in that room?”

Greg nearly collided with the vehicle to the right of him, before correcting himself at the last second. He pulled into the first empty spot he saw. It wasn’t the question itself that upset him, but the timing.

“I’d just asked myself that same question when you asked.” He gripped the steering tightly. “I… I do not know for certain, but I am reasonably sure I burned it.”

Greg had no idea if John told Sherlock about his trip to his uncle’s. He still had no clue as Sherlock gave no indication he heard, let alone understood the statement. He sighed and pulled into traffic again.

Sherlock said nothing else until they arrived at Baker Street. “You held up well, all things considered, but you could not have stayed in that room.”

“I know.” Greg admitted, “I was already on the verge of panic. I was afraid you were going come in and drag me out of there.”

“I would not have thought to actually _drag you_. It would have disturbed the scene.” Sherlock’s lip quirked slightly at the dirty look Greg shot him. Cool green eyes looked him over once more before exiting the car. “Good night, Lestrade.”

Greg could not help but feel that an important decision was made by the man just then. He gave what seemed like his thousandth sigh of the day, now night as he headed home.

<><><> 

Greg walked into his home, tossed his keys and wallet on the side table, walked to the bookshelf and placed his gun in the lockbox, placed the hip holster on top, by pure rote. He had not bothered to turn on a light. He walked over to the shelf that held the liquor. He had bought a new bottle a month ago, but had not opened it.

He contemplated the amber liquid inside, barely seen in the moonlight streaming through the window.

_God, if I open this will I be able to stop?_

Greg lifted the bottle, his hand tensed on the cap in preparation to open it, but just stood there instead.

He still stood there, bottle in hand, fifteen minutes later when he felt it gently removed from his fingers. He idly watched as it made its way back to its proper place on the shelf. He gave no resistance as a strong hand silently walked him from the living room to his bedroom. Watched as he was led to sit on the edge of his bed so his shoes could be removed before he was gently pushed to lay down. The same strong hand gently stroked his face and then touched his shoulder lightly. Only when he felt the hand, and everything with it, about to leave did he react.  

Greg reached out and grabbed Mycroft’s hand to stop his departure.

Mycroft turned and raised a brow to him.

Greg tried to speak, but could not. He was afraid of what would come out, but he could not let go. His grip tightened as he pulled Mycroft to him. When Mycroft tried to resist Greg said nothing, but held on tighter as he pleaded into those blue eyes with his own.

“Want to talk about it?” Mycroft asked after a while.

Greg shook his head slowly.

“But you want me to stay? Here?” Mycroft eyes roamed the bed.

Greg made himself lean up on an elbow, the first tears welling in his eyes.

“Please?” His whispered voice broke as he swallowed hard and made space, the move tugged on the hand that trembled as it still held Mycroft’s.

When Mycroft toed off his shoes Greg let go of his hand, the trembling of his hand became a shudder that shook his entire body. When Mycroft’s knee pressed into the mattress, Greg closed his eyes and willed himself to still to no avail. When he felt the mattress give as Mycroft laid on the bed beside him he whimpered. When he felt himself pulled into Mycroft’s arms, felt the solid arms surrounded him, as they held him, then and only then did the near panic that had seized him the moment he found himself standing in the very room of his attack begin to ease.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg had not thought about what he was doing. Had not thought if he should be doing it. He might have talked himself out of it if he had.

Greg slowly opened his eyes to a pre-dawn whose early light had yet to break over the jagged edges of London’s cityscape.

Knowing Mycroft had picked the locks and got past his security alarm? Not a surprise.

_The mobile call Sherlock needed to make. Of course._

Waking in his own bed, his head on Mycroft’s chest, with Mycroft drawing lazy swirls along his arm?

Not a surprise, it’s a very pleasant dream he’s had before and he relished it. He tilted his head and kissed Mycroft’s neck.

“Gregory?”

_What?!_

Now _that_ was a surprise.

Greg bolted up and out of the bed. He reached over and turned on the lamp. He stared at the apparition laying on his bed. Mycroft was pinstripe suited, sans jacket and shoes, tie loosened and his sleeves rolled perfectly to his elbows, his hair slightly mussed. Only this Mycroft sniggered in amusement at Greg’s stunned expression.

_He’s real!_

“You... You’re… You’re not a dream?”

Mycroft leant on an elbow, surprised, “You’ve dreamt of me?  In your bed?”

Greg nodded, still not quite believing his eyes to think maybe he might not have wanted to reveal that as Mycroft magically kept a straight face while he all but beamed in pleasure.

_Mycroft Holmes is in my bedroom? On my bed?_

_How?_

And then the answers came to him.

“Oi.”

He sank down on the edge of the bed and let the past few hours replay in his head. The shock of walking into _that_ room. Seeing Jaspers body. Being so near the brink, had he lost it there was no way out. The touch of Mycroft’s hand as it stroked his face. The feel the Iceman’s arms as he pulled him in and held him, just held him.

“Reality is a cruel mistress at times.” Mycroft mused.

“And a kind one at others.” Greg countered, “I feel like I should say sorry for having asked you to stay, for drooling on your waistcoat, but I don’t think I can because I’m not.”

“Then don’t. I’m not sorry you asked. And I know you did not drool… much.”

Greg sat there for a moment in thought as he looked through a slight gap in the curtains at the still dark skies.

“It’s weird. I knew Frankie’s body was out there. I just assumed they dumped it elsewhere and it would turn up eventually. I had no illusions it would turn up to haunt me some day. I hadn’t thought that they would just leave him there. I… I never expected to see that room again. It was… jarring. I froze on sight. I took a lot to not to have a panic attack, to not scream. I didn’t, but… it was too close. Your brother, the brilliant bastard he is, deduced it – deduced me and got me out of there, dignity intact. I guess that’s a good thing.” Greg shrugged and ran both hands roughly through his hair.

“And how do you feel now?”

“A little shell shocked, I guess? It was a roller-coaster of a day. I’d thank your brother for calling you, but I’m not sure I want to give the peacock yet another reason to preen.”

“You do have a point.” Mycroft chuckled.

Greg looked at the bedside clock “It’s almost 5a.m.”

“So, it is.” Mycroft looked at his pocket watch for confirmation. “You don’t have to get up yet.”

Neither said anything for a long moment.

_“I” don’t have to get up yet…_

“But I suppose you have to go…?”

Mycroft paused a moment and raised a brow as he flicked his eyes over Greg.

“I do have a 9:30 with the P.M. I cannot ignore, but you would prefer that I stay a bit longer, as we are now.”

Greg knew it was not a question, but nodded in response anyway.

“Are you sure?”

Greg nodded again and then realized Mycroft wanted to hear him say it. “Yes. Please. Stay if you can.”

“Then turn out the light and come here.”

He did.

<><><><> 

The sun had fully risen and cast the room in a warm crepuscular when Greg opened his eyes again. He was disappointed, but not surprised to find himself alone. He grabbed the pillow next to him and pulled it to his face. It smelled of Mycroft.

The hair gel he used to control his curls. His cologne. _Him_.

_Last night was not a dream!_

He wished Mycroft could have stayed, but he was grateful for the moments he got to have with the minor government official as Greg rose out of bed. Mycroft was still very much on his mind as he came out of the shower and dressed.

_It’s Mycroft. I’m sure I’ll find a note left for me in the living room._

He was wrong.

_I don’t remember setting the coffee maker last night._

_Because I didn’t._

Greg headed straight for the kitchen and the smell of coffee.

“Good morning, Gregory. I trust you slept well.”

Greg could not have kept the grin from his face had his life depended on it as Mycroft handed him a mug of coffee while he sipped from his own mug.

“You drink coffee? I mean _Good Morning_!” He took the offered mug, surprised at the Iceman’s choice of beverage. “I do have tea, you know.”

“Gregory Lestrade that you deign to call that… vileness … tea is utterly heart breaking. I have met Americans who know better. I put the refuse exactly where it belonged. That simply should be not allowed to touch your lips.” Mycroft’s expression of revulsion as he texted was priceless.

Greg knew he should be insulted, but he simply could not stop smiling as he sipped the perfectly made coffee.

_Of course, he knows exactly how I drink my coffee._

He took a few more sips before he approached Mycroft and placed his mug down on the counter.

He took the mug and mobile from the man’s hands and placed them on the counter behind him, as he stepped into the space.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting some of what _should_ be allowed to touch my lips.”

Whatever Mycroft was about to say was cut off by Greg’s kiss.

He could feel Mycroft’s uncertainty, his want to resist, he would not let him. He brought one hand to lay on Mycroft’s chest, a finger sliding under the tie to rest in the hollow of his throat through the shirt. The other hand he brought to Mycroft’s neck. He enjoyed the feel of his day-old stubble against the thumb that grazed the jaw as he deepened the kiss. He felt as Mycroft brought one hand to his waist, the other slowly circled his wrist a finger gently lay just below his palm. Greg realized his pulse was being taken, but he did not care.

Greg _wanted_ this kiss. He wanted Mycroft to know how much he wanted it.

He felt the moment Mycroft stopped deducing him and wanted it as well. Felt Mycroft’s hand as it slid around to Greg’s back, the heat of that hand in the small of his back beneath the button up shirt that pulled him closer. Mycroft leaned his face into Greg’s hand that still cupped his cheek, and Greg let out his own sigh when Mycroft’s brain seemed to click out of gear and a soft gasp escaped from his lips to Greg’s. Greg pulled him closer, though the hand on Mycroft’s face kept its gentle, almost reverent touch as lips parted and warm tongues peeked out.

He felt his erection grow and enjoyed the gasp of surprise when he leaned fully against Mycroft and knew the iceman had felt it as well. He deepened the kiss when he felt Mycroft’s hardening in response.

_Yes._

“Mycroft…” Greg whispered, eyes still closed, arms held Mycroft’s body so close that their torsos brushed with each breath. Greg could feel the heat that rose between them, their coffee flavored breath warm and their skin flushed.

“Gregory…” Mycroft gripped the fabric at Greg’s back, pulled back just enough to breathe. “You’re not….”

_No. Don’t._

He opened his eyes and stared directly into Mycroft’s. 

“Don’t tell me what I’m not. I’m fighting for this. Fighting for us. _I_ _want_.”

Greg had not thought about what he was doing. Had not thought if he should be doing it. He might have talked himself out of it if he had. As it was he simply reacted on impulse as he pressed the length of his body into Mycroft’s and began to slowly rut against him.

It was achingly slow.

He watched as the dark pupils slowly dilated in those crystal blue eyes.

He felt it as Mycroft’s hands moved. One slowly up his arm, the other slowly up his back. Fingers played along his spine. He knew what Mycroft was contemplating when his fingers grazed the hairline at the back of his neck telegraphing his next move.

Greg slid his hand around to palm the Iceman’s erection through his trousers.

When Mycroft did not as much as flinch from the touch he knew.

_He needs to know I’m not going to try to kill him even if I lose it._

Eyes locked on each other, Greg visually challenged Mycroft.

I _need to know I’m not going to try to kill him even if I lose it._

Some level of Greg understood Mycroft would let him go as far as he dared. There was only one thing: he did not want to be afraid of himself anymore.

So today, he dared.

“We will see.” Mycroft’s voice dropped to glacier levels even as his eyes dilated more in the rising heat of his desire.

The two watched each other as Greg leaned back just enough to release the belt buckle and pop the button. He felt Mycroft’s fingers slowly climb his scalp. He purposely mimicked Moran’s touch as he had described it to him.

_Nique._

A low guttural sound escaped his lips as he grasped the tab to Mycroft’s zipper and pulled. It was Mycroft’s eyes that now challenged as Greg slid his fingers across the silk of Mycroft’s pants.   

They played with a potential conflagration neither were sure they could control and both knew it.

Greg bared his teeth as he felt the first hint that his mind wanted to disengage into memory at the trigger as Mycroft pressed his fingers in Greg’s scalp.

_No._

Greg shivered, but kept his eyes on Mycroft as Greg’s belt was released and Mycroft took hold of him through his pants.

He forced himself to concentrate on the feel of Mycroft in his hand through the silk boxers. Something dark and exceedingly dangerous flashed in the Iceman’s hooded eyes.

_Oh. God._

It was the most frightening, yet sexiest thing Greg had ever felt and it was Greg’s only warning as his strong fingers slid into his silver strands and yanked his head back and then sideways.

Greg felt it.

The flash of fear. The flash of anger. The gut instinct to lash out. He felt it all.

And shuddered.

_No. No. No._

Greg released Mycroft and tightly gripped the counter edge on either side of him instead.  He took a deep breath, his head rested on Mycroft’s shoulder even through the pull.

And that was when he felt something else. Something that did not fit in with the cruel memories that tried to surface.

Something that did not quell it, but helped to slacken the darkness that seeped in.

Something he could trust, or rather someone.

_Mycroft._

Greg lifted his head, opened his eyes and found himself lost in Mycroft’s.

“Still here. Still fighting. Still with _you_.” His gravelly voice trembled.

“Yes, you are...” Mycroft’s voice was husky as he released Greg’s head. Placed his hand at the DI’s waist and pulled him in close until Greg could not help but notice the bulge that matched his as Mycroft found his mouth again.

The kiss from Mycroft was different. No hesitation. No test. No deduction. No distraction.

Greg felt when the Iceman gave of himself and turned their positions so that it was Mycroft who grabbed the counter. and leaned the full length of his tall body against Greg’s in frottage.

_Wait… Aren’t Mycroft’s trousers still open?_

Greg purposely broke off the kiss and stared into the eyes of the most amazing man right in front of him. He slid his hands to the waist band and pulled the back of the shirt free, then slid both hands in the back at the waist. He slid the pants and trousers down past the hips. He pushed Mycroft back just enough to get them to the knees. One hand cupped the smooth curve of a now bare cheek as the other slid around to the front. All the while not breaking eye contact as dark pupils shut out more of the ice blue stare.

An eyebrow shot up as he got his first unadulterated touch. Felt it as Mycroft’s semi-erection fully came to life in his grasp.

_I always knew it was not just his brain that was impressive._

He flushed as Mycroft suddenly grinned, having gleaned the thought from Greg’s reaction.

The DI slid his thumb across the slit and enjoyed Mycroft’s audible response.

“Oh, this will not do. Quid pro, Mr. Lestrade.” Mycroft huffed as he pulled at the waist of Greg’s trousers.

“I’m not stopping you, Mr. Holmes.” Greg gave Mycroft a lopsided grin and Mycroft’s cock a gentle stroke.

Mycroft leaned away and broke eye contact at last as he made quick work of Greg’s trousers and pants and then let his own slide to the floor before he gave himself access to Greg.

Greg gasped as he felt when Mycroft's fingers curled around his hardened cock, precum already leaking.

“You are… beautifully made.”

Greg could not help but smile at Mycroft’s open appreciation.  He gazed at the heady sight of long pale fingers alongside his thick solid ones that surrounded the opposite man’s girth.

“Scoot over.” Mycroft’s breath grazed his cheek as he took a step to the side in direction.

Greg looked up at the odd request.

He had a firm grasp of a cock he had no intention of letting go of now that he finally got his hand on it and their pants and trousers around their respective ankles it was either scoot over or fall over.

Greg wisely chose the former as he realized what Mycroft wanted. He snickered as it still was out of reach. Even Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle as they scooted over more to reach the oil.  

_He would know I have no lube in the house._

There was something joyous in the utter ridiculousness of two half nude grown men scooting over that yet felt so… perfect.

_No. Not perfect… but right. Perfectly right. And isn’t this how it should feel, how it should be for us?_

Before Greg finished the thought, Mycroft had opened the oil, poured some in his own hand and then coated his own cock. Greg held out his hand for some of the impromptu lube.

“No.” Mycroft shook his head in denial. His voice took on a tone Greg had not heard before.

“Hands behind you on the counter or on my arms. Stay there and let me give us this.”

Greg blinked at the command, for it was most certainly a command. It was a dynamic he had not thought about before having always simply taken it. It was a level of trust he had not considered.

Mycroft’s cupped hand held the oil suspended between them unmoving, his gaze unflinching.

Greg had initiated this. He had done so knowing Mycroft would never do anything to hurt him. The hair pull was a lesson they both needed to know and he had given consent by staying put fully knowing it would happen.

_Because I trust him._

_Because I love him._

Greg saw the tension leave Mycroft as the minor government official deduced the decision. The relief seeped from Mycroft to him and he knew the right decision was made even before Greg started to move his hands to the counter.

“Thank you, Gregory.”

Mycroft took hold of him again. His slicked hand coated both of them as he placed his other hand on Greg's hip and brought them both closer together. Greg hissed from the contact of bare thigh as Mycroft dipped a little then slid his cock alongside his. Mycroft’s breath hitched when Greg moved next, replicating the slide.

_Oh god that feels good!_

But not as good as Mycroft held both cocks in his olive oil slicked hand and started a slow agonizing stroke.

Greg tried to pump in Mycroft’s hand when the slow stroking stopped altogether.

_Merde!_

Greg forced himself to stand still. The agonizing pleasure resumed with a squeeze that almost made his eyes roll back.

Greg moaned as he watched the piston action happening between them until he couldn’t any more, his grip on the counter failed as Mycroft increased the speed and grasped Mycroft’s upper arms instead. His head fell on the Iceman’s shoulder as Greg felt the pressure within him build, knew he was not going to last much longer under the Iceman’s excellent handling.

“Look at me.” Mycroft voice was barely above a whisper by his ear, but it was a no less of a command. Greg had not realized his eyes had closed.

Brown eyes gazed into blue eyes and smiled when he saw love and protectiveness there. Greg pressed his forehead to Mycroft’s not breaking eye contact as he felt the strong hand get faster, the grip tightened.

“I’m so close.” Greg breathed as he dug his fingers into Mycroft’s arm. A part of him suspected marks would be left, he could not bring himself to care as deep felt moan escaped his lips.

“I know, as am I.” Mycroft hissed through his own gritted teeth, their ragged breaths near matching. He felt it as Mycroft’s thighs trembled from the strain of holding on.

“My, please!” Greg begged as he felt his own body begin to tremble.

Greg vaguely felt Mycroft’s other hand roughly cover them as he leaned forward, the warmth of his breath ghosted Greg’s ear as he whispered, "Come."

Greg keened as he came, hard. He felt Mycroft’s body tense and then shatter with his own release. Foreheads together they gasped for breath as they spurted out between themselves. Greg collapsed against Mycroft and felt the arm that immediately snaked around him, Mycroft holding up Greg as much as himself.

Greg pulled Mycroft into a kiss as the world slowly reinserted itself.

_Oh god, our clothes!_

“Really?” Greg looked down and giggled. He looked up at Mycroft who looked at Greg straight-faced.

_Because yes, discovering a tea towel as the collector of their body fluids was an everyday thing._

“I have a shower and a change of suits at work, but I have to get to work first.” He gave as way of explanation as he wiped them off thoroughly before he handed Greg the tea towel. He reached for his pants and trousers as he began to put himself back together.

Greg looked down, the Iceman knew what his was doing. He was definitely going to have to do a quick wash, but there were no visible outward signs as he reached down for his own pants and trousers.

"Better?" Greg teased, as he tucked in, impressed with how well he suppressed the urge to laugh at Mycroft’s clear dismay at the wrinkled state of his trousers.

"Very much so. Thank you." He huffed sarcastically, well aware he was being laughed at regardless.

"You are welcome." Greg smiled sweetly.

“I have a 9:30 with the P.M. and it’s already half of 8 o’clock.”  Mycroft placed their two mugs in the sink, retrieved his mobile and headed for the kitchen door.

“Coming and going Mycroft?” Greg deadpanned as he crossed his arms across his chest in reprimand.

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, his expression aghast… “Gregory… I…”

_Why is he looking at me like that…?_

“Shite! Mycroft, I didn’t mean it like that! You said earlier you had a 9:30. It was just a tease.”  Greg went to him, kissed his forehead. They walked to the living room where Mycroft picked up his briefcase and umbrella.

“A tease?” The Iceman took a breath. “Understood.  About ready to leave?”

“No, go ahead. I need to toss this in the wash and I have to make my bed.”

“ _Have to_ make your bed?”

“Me copper? No maid.” Greg pointed to himself, “I can’t leave my house with my bed unmade.”

“You _can’t_?”

Greg raised a brow.

_For a man who abhors repeating himself you’re doing a grand job of repeating me._

“Forgive me Gregory. Everyone has an OCD about something in their lives. It is interesting to learn yours.”

He had never thought of it as such, but it likely qualified. He did not have much time to think about it.

Mycroft turned to Greg and shoved him to the wall by the door. Greg saw the heat flash in Mycroft’s eyes.

“I promise you this, Gregory Michael Lestrade: The first time you get into _my_ bed, I swear we will be so worn out that you will not be able to make up your own mind, let alone make up a damned bed. And that is IF I even let you keep enough strength to crawl out of it.” His voice had dropped to a level that weakened Greg’s knees “I expect that will happen by the week’s end.”

Mycroft then blazed the DI’s lips with a scorcher of a kiss.

_Good god the man can kiss!_

The kiss broke off solely because they needed to breathe.

“Now _that_ , Gregory, is a tease. Have a good day.”

With that Mycroft walked out the door and strolled away, umbrella twirling lightly.

Greg grinned at the receding back as he closed the door.

[“ _I expect that will happen before the week’s end.”_ ]

That was a threat and a promise.

_And one bloody hell of a tease._

It was only Wednesday.

 _Enculé_.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sat on the ledge of the balcony, watching the last vestiges of sun when his mobile pinged. He retrieved his mobile from the desk and read the text.
> 
> Matthew 7:7 – MH
> 
> What?

Greg closed his eyes to the blurred lines on his monitor.

_No, the lines on the monitor are fine it’s your eyes that are blurred._

Wednesday had started off wonderful and full of promise.

Then at 11:42am, his mobile rang and everything went sideways.

  * A Metro officer was stabbed when she responded to a domestic, by the fighting couple’s son.
  * The body of a drug overdosed teenage son to a foreign dignitary was found in the loo of a known gay club. The foreign dignitary was from a country that turned a blind eye if a citizen is stoned for such. Accusations of it being a setup internal or external, including a nasty diatribe to neighboring nation. The lambasting of the security to protect the boy who slipped away from his own guards as well as the Metro police assigned to watch the family.



It had been such a crap day, he was not in the least surprised when Mycroft called to cancel their planned dinner. He was already on his way to Heathrow on an assignment, which he could not talk about, naturally.  And not only would he be gone for several days, he would also be incommunicado. Greg knew it was part and parcel of both their jobs, for he had been the one to cancel a time or two when work demanded it. Still, it had not helped his mood at all when by the point he had wanted nothing more than to go home, have a beer and fall asleep in the Iceman’s arms. He was completely unable to hide the disappointment from his voice as Mycroft informed Greg of his imminent departure.  That was at around five in the afternoon.

A little after 7p.m. Chief Inspector Ahlers went off the rails during a press conference and somehow made it all Lestrade’s fault when a reporter called the man out for contradicting a previous statement. Around 10 o’clock, DI Hopkins broke her arm while taking down a perp that somehow got free of his restraints.

It was now nearly half two Friday morning. A soft but solid breathing caught his attention and he turned to the mass of long curls snoozing on his desk.  He gently woke his sergeant and sent her home. An hour later Greg was putting on his jacket when his desk phone rang.

_Don’t answer it. At this time in the morning? You know it’s nothing but trouble._

He let it ring out. His hand was on the office door when his mobile pinged. Only a very small handful of people would call him at such an hour. He knew Sally, Sherlock and John were in their respective homes. Mycroft was overseas, but he would know exactly what time it was in London and not call him, besides he was incommunicado. That left only left…

_Nique._

“Yes, Chief Inspector?” Greg was glad he was in his own office, the look of disgust he knew was on his face, hidden as he walked back to his desk with a groan he barely kept from being audible.

“What?!” he stared at his mobile in surprise a few moments later, for surely, he had not heard correctly.

He had.

Alfred VanDyne.

The former high-powered executive had embezzled millions of dollars from his company. Money that belonged to people who had drastic losses to their pensions were the lucky ones. Lestrade had just made sergeant, it was one of his first big cases with Major Crimes. He doggedly followed the trail until it led to an underling of VanDyne’s who gave him up. The embezzler became a murderer when VanDyne arranged an escape from the vehicle transporting him from a holding facility to court.  Greg’s gut instinct had sussed out something was off with the convoy. Unfortunately, by the time he convinced his partner and then his superiors of the issue, VanDyne was in the midst of his escape. Lestrade was hot on the man’s trail for a week, all the way to Sumburgh airport in Scotland. He watched helplessly from the tarmac as the man took off in a private plane. To this day Greg swore he saw the smug bastard give him the forks as the plane taxied away.

VanDyne has been on the lam for over a decade. In the beginning he had stayed away from any country that had extradition with the UK. In the last couple of years, he had been spotted in British territories, but always after the fact, under various names and disguises. He all but flaunted his ridiculous luck in evading arrest.

The luck had finally run out.

A fight between two men over a cheating wife turned into VanDyne receiving the bullet meant for the cuckolded husband. He had tried going to a backdoor clinic, but the wound went septic. He was taken to the nearest trauma center. A trauma center which just happened to be in Grand Turk.

As in Turks and Caicos in the Caribbean, a territory of Britain.

Greg could not be a part of the official extraction team, but there was nothing that excluded him from being an attaché representing New Scotland Yard.  The commissioner wanted to give Greg the honors of being one of the first people Alfred VanDyne sees when he awakened from his induced coma on Monday. Ahlers had suggested Greg leave on Sunday. The police commissioner, sitting with Ahlers in his office, told Greg he could leave today if he wanted and enjoy a weekend in the Caribbean. Greg was once again glad he was alone in his own office so Ahlers could not see his evil grin. He knew the police commission gainsaid the man just to be contrary. Ahlers seemed to be truly clueless to the amount of people who thought unfavorably of him.

_As long as it works in my favor, I’ll take it._

“So, I think it is safe to say you would like to get out of your office now?” The commissioner mused.

“Oh, yes, sir!”

All exhaustion fled the detective inspector as he had only a few hours to make a quick purchase on faith, pack a couple of days’ worth of clothes, grab his passport and catch the first flight out.

_I’ll sleep on the plane!_

* * *

Any annoyance and pain he felt after travelling for over fifteen hours vanished moments after his plane landed in the Caribbean. He was greeted by James Donaldson, a law officer there, an expat who knew his previous commissioner. They got along fabulously as Greg got a mini tour of the island before being dropped off to his hotel.

“Are you sure I’m supposed to be here?” Greg looked around at the lush grounds and grand lobby.

Donaldson checked his mobile. “Yup, this be the place. I can see you’re lagging about now, so why don’t you check in and get some relaxing in. You got my number if you want to get into some food and drink later.”

“Thanks so much!” Greg grinned at the man.

If he was impressed with the grounds and the lobby, he was floored with the suite itself when opened the door.  An airy sunken living area suite with floor to ceiling windows that faced a balcony which overlooked the beach and ocean. A well-appointed mini bar and a lovely desk if he wanted to get some work done.  Greg opened his laptop and then looked out at the scenic view outside the balcony.

_Nah._

He closed the laptop and used the Wi-Fi password from the desk to connect his mobile, made himself a drink and then opened the balcony doors letting in the breeze.

He could not resist taking a couple of selfies, drink in hand and sent one to Donovan.

Jealous, much? – GL

Sally’s caustic response was very much expected and he could not help but laugh as he plugged in his mobile to charge. A quick shower and a change into an Arsenal t-shirt and loose pyjamas bottoms later, he took a seat on the chaise on the open balcony and enjoyed his drink.

He then sent a very different one to Mycroft, not knowing when he would get a chance to see it.

Damn, how I wish you were here with me. – GL

When he opened his eyes again the sun had all but set. The crepuscular sky was awash in color over the aqua waters of day that had turned dark in the approaching night. Music from steel drums drifted in from a restaurant down the beach. He sat on the ledge of the balcony, watching the last vestiges of sun when his mobile pinged. He retrieved his mobile from the desk and read the text.

Matthew 7:7 – MH

_What?_

Greg frowned at the message. Greg had been an altar boy. He was almost ashamed of himself at how long it took him to get the reference. He grinned as he typed his response, as almost everything suddenly made sense.

Can you find me? – GL

It was not a question. Greg turned on only enough light to not trip over anything in the room, yet remain dark enough to not interfere with warm ambiance of the moonlight as he looked to the door and waited.

A few moments later there was a knock.

“ _Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find;…_ ” Greg opened the door and quoted the scripture to one Mycroft Holmes who filled the door frame with a warm smile.

“… _knock, and it shall be opened unto you._ ” Mycroft finished the bible verse and stepped into the suite.

This was a Mycroft Greg had never seen before. His standard three-piece bespoke armor was replaced with a crisp, crème colored linen trouser and shirt, still bespoke – this is Mycroft Holmes after all. Still, despite the casualness of the clothes, the Iceman somehow radiated power.

“My god you’re magnificent.” Greg breathed.

“I would say the same of you, but I would rather show you instead.” Mycroft eyes flared with heat as he drank in the sight of Greg Lestrade in just his pyjamas bottoms and a tee.  

“No. Me first. Take off your shoes.” Greg moved toward the slightly taller man and encircled him within his arms. He knew he had questions. Knew he had several of them in fact. Not a single one would come to mind as their lips met.

Gently at first, so happy to find each other in this moment. Then not so gentle as desire, want and full out need started to take precedence.

Greg dipped his head, his lips brushed the hollow of Mycroft’s throat.

They didn't really make it to the bedroom right away. They landed at the top step to the sunken living area as Greg attacked Mycroft’s neck with his mouth and rolled over until Greg lay on top.

Greg unbuttoned the shirt and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s chest, his hands dragged down the solid abdomen, snagging at the waste-band of the trousers.

"Yes!" Mycroft whispered hoarsely, as Greg’s wet tongue swept down to his navel.

Greg paused as Mycroft pulled at Greg’s t-shirt for removal and then returned to his exploration of the heated flesh. He enjoyed Mycroft’s pleased intake of breath as his arousal pressed through the layers of their bottom fabrics.

He pulled back up into a kiss and moaned into Mycroft’s mouth as he unbuckled Mycroft’s belt.

Mycroft arched up as Greg pulled both trousers and boxers down with one swift tug. Mycroft’s erection sprang free against his abdomen.

“Greg…” Mycroft started.

“Is ordering you to let me gift this to us.” He responded thickly and cut off any other potential protestations from the Iceman as a languid tongue dragged down his abdomen, teeth nipped at the tender area where hip and thigh meet and then lips encircled his cock before he engulfed him completely.

The low guttural moan that escaped Mycroft’s lips drove him on.

Mycroft cried out for more, as Greg swirled the flat of his tongue up along the shaft, flicked right below the frenulum, before he encircled his lips around the head again and sucked with a pressure that made Mycroft arch upward into his mouth.

“Bed! Oh God, Greg! Bed!” The Iceman begged as he desperately pushed at Greg.

Greg rose and pulled him up. He looked at Mycroft incredulously as he picked up his clothes.

“It’s linen, Greg…” he sheepishly gave as explanation.

He patiently waited as Mycroft neatly draped them over the back of the nearest chair. Greg dropped his pyjamas bottoms on the spot and then all but dragged a tongue wagging Mycroft into the bedroom and flung him to the bed, where he landed sprawled among the bed linen.

“Don’t move.” Greg ordered breathily as he admired the recumbent form before him in the moonlight that streamed through the window.

In spite of his younger brother’s mocking Mycroft had a solidly built body. His body hair a brighter ginger, than that seen by the public on his head, with the smattering of freckles across his chest and shoulders in stark contrast to the pale complexion.

“You have absolutely no idea how splendid you look right now.” Greg whispered, his need in every syllable as he cupped himself.

The ice blue of Mycroft’s hooded eyes were rendered almost nonexistent as they dilated in the heat of Greg’s open reverence for him.

“Lube, in case the opportunity presented itself, in my trouser pocket.” Mycroft leaned up further on his elbows and spread his bent knees in invitation.

Greg walked to his travel bag and retrieved his quick purchase.

Mycroft grinned.

“Faith, in case you found me, in mine.” He tossed the bottle he had purchase before he left London, climbed onto the bed and crawled over Mycroft’s body. He leaned down and kissed him deeply. Greg wanted to touch him, wanted to put himself, his hands, his mouth all over Mycroft. He kissed down the pale neck and licked at his shoulder, sank his teeth into one dusky nipple as rolled the other tightly between his fingers, raked his nails along the beautiful white torso. Mycroft was all but mewling by the time he took the thick cock between his lips, licking and fondling him with fervor, bringing him close, but not letting him tumble over.

“Gregory….” Mycroft moaned through gritted teeth, “please!”

_Oh, you can still say my name formally? No, that won’t do at all._

Greg popped the cap from the lube and massaged it onto both of them, before he lowered his slicked his fingers to rub along Mycroft’s perineum. He encircled the entrance then carefully slid a finger partially in. He was rewarded with a slight hiss that turned into a low moan from Mycroft as he worked the finger in fully, before he added another and worked that in, enjoying the feel as slowly opened to his fingers.

Mycroft began to ride the fingers.

“No. No. No.” He admonished, his gravelly voice low as he stopped his machinations “This is mine. You don’t control this. _I do_. Now _stay_. ”

Mycroft’s flew open to stare at Greg who stared back without mercy. Mycroft gritted his teeth, but stilled himself.

“Very good. Here’s what happens when you’re good.”

The DI added a third finger. Mycroft’s low moan, music to Greg’s ears, became louder as he moved the fingers slowly in and out, stretched him wider, he made an incendiary little noise of his own as he slowly twisted his fingers until he found the special packet of nerves of Mycroft’s prostrate and tapped all the while sliding their slicked cocks deliciously together. A faint sheen of sweat glistened as again, he brought Mycroft to the edge. He can all but see the sparks and shivers as the low moan became a mangled, incomprehensible sound.

_Now that’s better._

“Up.” He ordered and placed a pillow under Mycroft’s hips then hooked a long leg over his shoulder as he positioned himself.

“Pleeeasssse.” Mycroft writhed in anticipation.

“Please what?” Greg teased with a gentle rut, the head of his cock pressed against the waiting entrance.

“God damn you fuck me!” Mycroft hissed.

_Really now?_

“Oh, you’re sorry, whose is this?” Greg froze in place, the head of his cock pressed up against Mycroft but not going in. Mycroft panted watching him but not answering.

_You don’t want to play with me now._

“Whose!” Greg slammed against his hole, not willing to accept any answer but one and they both knew it. Mycroft’s fist hammered the bed as Greg silently slammed against him again.

“Yours!” Mycroft cried in the torture of being so close and yet so far and then much softer in whispered yielding, “Yours.”

Greg knew he should have eased himself in.

He didn’t.

“ _Mine!_ ” He snarled, lined himself up and _pushed_.

Both men gasped, lost in the sudden awareness of each other.

 _“_ Oh god! So tight! So hot! _Enculé! Enculé! Enculé!”_

It had been a long time, he paused to let himself adjust to the sensation. Mycroft keened as he slowly rode Greg in the chase of his own pleasure.

_“So good! G-g-greeg! Aaah!”_

Greg adjusted his angle and Mycroft arched off the bed violently with an unrestrained howl, when Greg hit the prostate again. The feeling of control over Mycroft’s pleasure was staggering. He hooked Mycroft’s other leg over his shoulder. Mycroft locked his ankles behind Greg’s head and Greg nearly saw stars behind his own eyes as he partially withdrew and then pushed deep.

Greg dug his fingers into Mycroft’s hips with in both hands so hard he knew it would leave marks in the pale flesh, held him in place as his thrusting deepened, quickened.

“So close, so close…” Mycroft voice trembled.

“No.” Gritted between his teeth.

The rocking of their bodies frantic as he grasped the cock between them and matched the pace with his strokes. Mycroft threw his head back, the cord of his neck stood out as he was reduced to primal guttural sounds, his fists twisted tightly in the bed covers.

He felt it as Mycroft’s thighs trembled from the strain of it, it matched his own trembling he was so close.

A groan ripped out of Mycroft’s throat. "I’m… I….m’gonna come… come." the smooth voice now broken gasps.

Greg’s smile was fierce as he enjoyed the inelegance his impaled love’s words were reduced to as Mycroft slowly fell apart as Greg took him harder, relished in the sounds of their joining as he claimed him further.

“Then come.”

Mycroft bucked wildly and came, a look of sheer ecstasy crossed his features as he shot streams between them. He clenched around Greg’s and suddenly, the hot tightness that encompassed him was too much.

_Too much! Too much!_

He was barely cognizant of the shouts, whether they were Mycroft’s or his own, it did not matter. He pumped wildly through Mycroft’s orgasm, the minor government official’s pale legs splayed open to either side of Greg unable to hold up anymore, even as his spasms clenched tightly around Greg and tipped him over in a blinding flash of brilliance as Greg came at last.

Greg groaned deeply in his throat and collapsed onto Mycroft, stickiness be damned. He slowly rolled over to the side as they basked in the afterglow, to regain their breath. Mycroft reached out for Greg’s hand and brought it to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss into the palm.

"That was…extraordinary.”  Mycroft whispered softly when he could speak again.

Greg hummed not quite ready for words yet.

Whether it was from remnants of jetlag or from the exertion of their recent activity, Greg was exhausted, barely having had enough energy to get damp and dry flannels to clean up.  He dropped them both on the nightstand when done, curled into Mycroft’s arms and promptly fell asleep.

He woke up and had another go. They weren’t exactly spring chickens, still after another brief rest, they went again.

“So? How much of this is lovely interlude is your doing?” Greg kissed the freckled shoulder before him, a Caribbean dawn slowly lighting its way across the latest afterglow of their spooned bodies.

“Only the pick-up and the hotel. VanDyne getting shot, the sepsis and the induced coma were the universe being kind in its gifts. We received the notice on VanDyne’s hospitalization, but were going to leave it to the standard channels. Then you informed Anthea you were on your way here for my sake. The rest were simply a few calls including forwarding your text to me once you were here.”

“What?” Greg’s eyes sprang open as he shot up in the bed, “Please tell me she forwarded it without looking.”

“I wish I could, but I’m afraid she has to vet my correspondence when I’m incommunicado in case of emergency.” He had tried to hold his laughter at Greg’s mortification, but failed.

“She understood that it qualified as an emergency call.” He grinned as he retrieved his mobile and brought it to the bed to show the exchange.

 

> [Sir, emergency text from DI Lestrade. – A]
> 
> [Patch it through secure. – MH]
> 
> Mycroft brought up the image of the torso and legs of the detective inspector. The pyjamas bottom clad legs. The pyjamas bottom clad legs with one impressive tenting.
> 
> [Congratulations, Sir. You chose well. ;) – A]

“Oh God, I’m not going to be able to look her in the face for at least a month!”

“And I suspect she will look at everything but your face for at least a month.”  Mycroft chuckled.

“Tosser!” Greg hit him with a pillow which brought forth more laughter from both. “God, I can barely move a muscle, but I need food.”

As he looked around the room in the burgeoning daylight Greg saw suits in the closet and realized a) he was in Mycroft’s suite, meaning they were in his bed; b) he was barely able to move and c)

“I’ll be damned, it’s Sunday morning.” Greg sighed softly as he shook his head at the man who knelt between his bent legs.

[“I promise you this, Gregory Michael Lestrade: The first time you get into _my_ bed, I swear we will be worn out so much that you will not be able to make up your own mind, let alone make up a damned bed. And that is IF I even let you keep enough strength to crawl out of it.” His voice had dropped to a level that weakened Greg’s knees “I expect that will happen by the week’s end.”]

Because of the time change it was still officially Saturday when Mycroft entered the suite.

“Yes, it is.”  Mycroft ran a slow hand down Greg’s chest, his hooded blue eyes and deepening voice full of meaning.

“You are a man of your word, _mon roi_.” Greg’s breath hitched as he wondered by what miracle he was getting hard yet again.

Greg could see Mycroft’s body reciprocated as he leaned in for a kiss.

“For you, _mon roi_ …. Yes, I am.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally’s eyes went wide in shock for a moment. Just for a moment. He saw the wheels turn as she put it all together.  
> And Greg knew then, she knew.  
> She saw his face and knew it for the truth it was as tears filled her eyes

Greg’s eyes went wide in shock as he and Sally charged into the small room with Metro and museum security.

_No, this is NOT happening!_

They are greeted by the sight of one James Moriarty wearing casual clothes as he sat on the throne inside the case that housed the Crown Jewels.

_Not him! Anyone but him!_

Greg was in a room full of people and nearly collapsed under the onslaught of isolophobia. He dug his nails into his palm, nearly drawing blood, the pain the only thing that kept him from screaming.

The criminal mastermind sat on the throne wearing the ermine trimmed robe, with the crown on his head, the orb between his knees and holding the scepter across his lap as though he was not the one who just obliterated the glass front of the once secure case he now sat in. The shards of glass at his feet sparkled nearly as much as the jewels. Earphones plugged into an MP3 player, Moriarty’s eyes were closed as he blissfully listened to his music as though unaware he was surrounded.

Greg knew better.

When the music came to its end, Moriarty opened his eyes and smiled serenely at the law enforcement around him. “No rush.”

Greg stood off to the side as they handcuffed Moriarty and hauled him out of the room. It took everything Lestrade had not to charge at the audacious man when Moriarty winked as he passed by Greg.  Once outside, Greg and Sally watched as he was put into the back of a police car. Greg looked down at Moriarty’s phone given to him for evidence. He saw the message the criminal mastermind sent the consulting detective, knowing Sherlock was already on his way.

He pulled out his own mobile.

He’s back! –GL

I know. The footage just came through. –MH

Moran? –GL

Unknown. Searching now. –MH

This is grandiose even by his standards. –GL

I know. This is all about my brother, I am sure.  –MH

Understood. Thank you. – GL

Greg inwardly sighed, of course Mycroft would understand what he’s really asking.

It has been nearly two years since Moriarty nearly destroyed him emotionally on a whim. It’s been nearly two years since therapy helped him rebuild his equilibrium and Mycroft helped him rebuild his soul. There was the occasionally regression. Sally slipped on something slick on the sidewalk and in her desperate reach grabbed Greg’s wrist in a way that triggered. He had just enough sense left of his surroundings that when he lunged for her it was to pull her up, not throw her down, but it had been close.  He still had not told her about the rape, but she knew about Mycroft. Though he and Mycroft have decided to keep their relationship a secret from the general public, there was no question for those who knew them well that they belonged to each other. Having associations with both Holmes brothers Greg was well aware that it kept him on several radars as well.

Especially, Moriarty’s who was now back with a vengeance.

<><><><><><> 

“Do you remember when Sherlock told you a plan was in place, concerning Moriarty?” Mycroft placed a tumbler of brandy in Greg’s hand after dinner one evening as they sat in Mycroft’s living room.

It was a month after the trial that acquitted the consulting criminal mastermind. Moriarty had disappeared not long after the trial. Pretty much as he had before his reappearance with the Crown Jewels. They did not speak about it, but Greg was aware Mycroft searched for him and Moran in between everything else. The two remained elusive.

Greg studied his lover’s face for a moment as he accepted the brandy. He put down the book he was reading.

_This is not going to be good._

“Yes?”

“I can’t tell you everything, but if my brother and I are right, and we know we are, you’re going to play a part in this. We do not know exactly when he is going to strike or exactly how. One of the scenarios we imagined will involve someone at NSY, if not you directly. My brother and I see no easy way around this. Things are going to be…trying. Difficult.  Regardless, when it does we will need you to do your job. You’re going to want to balk at it, may even detest it, but for everything to play out you must do it.”

“We’ve reached the end game have we?”

“Yes.”

<><><><><><> 

That conversation was why Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sat in front of Chief Superintendent Ahlers’ desk being berated as Donovan and Anderson stood off to the side. Like it or not, and he most certainly did not, Donovan had raised valid points concerning exactly how Sherlock deduced the information that rescued the two kidnapped Bruhl children. His simple faith in Sherlock would not come into play here, Lestrade had to investigate if for no other reason than to get to the eventual truth.  It was why he personally went to oversee the arrest of Sherlock. He did not know the details or their plan. He suspected he never would. He just had to trust it was part of the plan. It was why he nearly lost his job, being hesitant when the genius did the most idiotic thing possible by running, while handcuffed to Watson nonetheless, and became a fugitive from the law. He told himself it was part of the Holmes Brother’s plan.

 It had to be.

He was at his desk when the four agents walked up to a detective on his floor and took him away. When one of them nodded to him once, he did not know what or why, but knew it was part of the plan.

A half hour later he got _the call_.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was dead.

There was absolutely no way _that_ was part of the plan.

He roared in grief at NSY. Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson steered clear of him for weeks.

The call had come not from Mycroft, but from Molly - to come get John Watson.

It was Mycroft who instructed Molly to not let anyone see Sherlock including John Watson. He also instructed her to call Greg only after he had claimed Sherlock’s body and had left St. Bartholomew’s. Molly, who was hiding from John and could not even look at Greg, was an absolute wreck.

And John Watson?

Doctor John Hamish Watson was near catatonic as Greg finally brought him to Baker Street into the tearful care of Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft fell off the face of the earth for nearly a week, sending Greg into a tailspin until Anthea called him when Mycroft finally showed up at his office. The usually stoic woman barely looked up when he reached her desk. Still he knew she had been crying as she simply buzzed him in.

Greg blazed into the office full of fury and worry, ready for bear.

And everything he was about to say to vanished into the ether upon sight of Mycroft.

Broken, did not begin to describe the state of the man before him. He had not changed clothes, he had not shaved. His hair, normally tamed with product was showing some of its natural curls. When he finally looked up, after Greg had called his name several times, his eyes were bloodshot. He barely spoke, barely lifted his head. He looked as though all life had been drained from him, a marionette with cut strings.

Though it was mostly circumstantial evidence that would have never held up in actual court, Moriarty had done a thorough job of slandering the name of Sherlock Holmes in the court of public opinion. As such his funeral was a very private affair attended by no more than a couple of dozen people. Mycroft stood at the front of the service, and at the interment, as the sole representative of the immediate Holmes family, their parents much too distraught to attend.

Mycroft had withdrawn into himself in the following months, becoming more and more secretive. On the surface, once the funeral was over, there was almost no grieving period as the British Government allowed himself to be pulled deep into foreign affairs and intrigues to cope. On a few occasions he would be out missions incommunicado. Though he never let on, those were time timed Greg would worry until he had laid eyes on him again. Then Mycroft would be back and it would be fine between them for a bit and then it was wash, rinse repeat.

During that time, it seemed London’s criminal element had gone into its own tailspin. Turf wars and powerplays broke out as new and old players tried to climb the criminal ladder with the death of Moriarty. Greg was at his desk filling out reports when he realized that it was the fourth day in a row that found him working well past midnight. He understood everything that if it was happening in the locality of London, then it was also playing out at an international level. It was keeping Mycroft just as busy, if not more so.  They had not seen and had barely spoken to each other in the past two weeks.

Things had become strained between them and Greg could not put his pulse on what. Mycroft fought to stay with him, even when pushed away. Mycroft had not ordered him away as he had done to the Iceman, but he felt almost shut off from him nonetheless. Now it was his turn to fight. He had to figure it out.

He had to as he realized he had not seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours. Mycroft had never gone incommunicado without telling him personally first, so he knew it was not a mission. He pulled out his mobile and checked. He had texted to Mycroft that he was too exhausted to drive home and grabbing a bunk at NSY. That was early Tuesday morning, it was now late Thursday morning.  That has never happened before.

He pulled out his mobile speed dialed a familiar number a sinking feeling knotting his stomach.

“Where’s Mycroft?” He asked without preamble.

“His last contact was early yesterday morning, he was headed home. We found his sedan off the M1. The front driver wheel was shot out. The driver was dead at the scene. All of his trackers were deactivated. That is how we knew something was wrong.” Anthea answered without preamble. “Right now - we just don’t know, Lestrade.”

Greg was grateful he was already seated as the words sucker punched the air from him anyway. He could hear that she was in Communications. Heard Lady Smallwood giving orders in the background. He understood she was breaking protocol as she gave him what information she could which of course was next to nothing. She attempted to reassure him that the best were on it.

“No. The best person for this is dead!” Greg hissed his grief for the loss of the younger Holmes brother intertwined with the worry in his love of the elder brother. He and Mycroft had discussed this possibility, but Greg had never wanted to imagine it would come to light. That discussion was the only thing that kept him calm as he acknowledged Anthea was oddly quiet on her end of the line.

“I’m sorry Anthea. I…” He rubbed the back of his neck.

_Don’t take it out on her._

“I know Greg, I know. I would tell you to stay put, but I know you will not listen. I can’t let you in here.” She sighed, then lowered her voice. “I can get you in his house. What the…?!” Anthea broke off surprised. A moment later a different voice came on the line.

“Right now I need Anthea to be focused to find him, not hold your verbal hand.”  Lady Smallwood’s crisp voice came on the line, before Greg could think to bristle she dropped her voice into much softer tones “I promise you will know the moment we have him, Lestrade. If possible we will have you there at pick-up. Will that do?”

_No, but do I have a bloody choice?_

“Yes, thank you.” He sighed grateful as they rang out.

_Of all the days for my car to be at the mechanics!_

He gave his excuses to Ahlers and was headed out to catch a taxi when his mobile pinged with a text from Sally who was out following a lead on a case.

Trade you. - SD

Greg frowned at the message as another text came in. A picture text.

A picture of Sergeant Salome Renee Donovan, hands handcuffed behind her, her gagged bloodied head on the floor of a vehicle.

_Oh my god, Sal’s been kidnapped!_

Simple 1: Call for help – she’s dead before you find her.  – SD

Simple 2: You get in - she gets out alive. – SD

Come to the kerb, now. – SD

A van pulled up alongside the cars parked on the street.  It positioned itself so that the side door was between two parked cars so when the door slid open only he could see her on the floor. Three guns pointed at her by masked men. The door closed partially hiding her from view.

Walk around to other side slowly with hands out. – SD

It was busy street in midday.  Dozen different scenarios went through his mind.

Not one that did not wind up with getting Sal killed.

He started making his way to the other side of the van.  A door opened and hands reached out to pull him in him as they also removed his gun and took his mobile. The all too familiar sound of a cocked gun much too close to his head was heard. They looked at each other helplessly as his own cuffs were used to secure his arms behind him before he was pushed to his knees beside her.

She looked worse up close. She had clearly given someone a fight and was beaten badly for it. Her hands, ankles and knees were tied. His eyes questioned and she gave a slight shake of her head and winced. She was hurt.

“You said I get in, she gets out.” Greg reminded the occupants.

He felt more than saw as someone was on their knees behind him and suddenly _he knew_.

He knew before the strong hand slid it way into his hair again and pulled.

He flinched and another gun was pointed at him. Memories spiraled with reality and he knew.

Sally cried out behind her gag and was elbowed hard for it.

He knew before an all too familiar voice he had hoped never to hear again spoke behind him.

“Feisty thing. Didn’t have enough drugs for her like when you were taken.”

Sally’s eyes went wide.

_Oh god no! No! No!_

“Don’t… Please don’t…” The words came unbidden as he spiraled deeper.

“That’s sweet. I think you said similar words to me then.” The dark chuckle ghosted his ear as he looked at the woman before him.

“Oh? You never told her Lestrade? Didn’t tell her how I tied you to a bed? How I rode this sweet arse of yours? How you moaned when we let Jaspers have his fun with you? How even with Jasper’s blood on your body after I slit his throat, I took you again? Your lovely arsehole swollen and leaking from our abuse and yet you still _moaned_? ”

Sally’s eyes went wide in shock for a moment. Just for a moment. He saw the wheels turn as she put it all together.

And Greg knew then, she knew.

She saw his face and knew it for the truth it was as tears filled her eyes. She didn’t get to see it for long as a signal was made and the driver side door slid open behind her. One of the gun men jumped out, pulled Sally out to ground between the parked cars and jumped back in the van.  Greg lunged forward and flipped over.

He kicked out wildly and had a moment’s satisfaction of seeing Moran slam backwards into the door.

Greg had started sparring with Mycroft’s agents per his suggestion. Still he was handcuffed in a small van with five to one odds against not including the driver.

It was a short fight.

The only advantage he had was in knowing they did not want him dead. He could only think of one reason.

They had taken Mycroft and they knew of their relationship.

“I told you I didn’t have enough of the drug, not that I didn’t have any!” Sebastian jammed the needle in his neck as three of the men held him down while the drugs took effect.

_At least I bloodied your arse this time, fucker!_

Greg woke up with his wrists chained to a chair in a warehouse basement.

He had awakened to the sounds of screaming.

Screams that were quite distinctively Mycroft's.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg idly wondered if this was how Mycroft always felt as an odd clarity washed over him and he knew exactly what to do.

Greg woke up with his wrists chained to a chair in a warehouse basement.

He had awakened to the sounds of screaming.

Screams that were quite distinctively Mycroft's.

It was not before his own yells filled the room, but again they seemed to be pulling their punches. Enough to make him cry out painfully, but nothing time could not heal in a few days.

_If I can hear Mycroft he can hear me._

Sebastian had found himself a new boss. One that wanted information from Mycroft that he was not yielding. The men Moran had in the van where he was in charge were different from the few men he had seen so far in the warehouse. The men in the van had local thugs all but written all over them. These men wore head to toe black that covered everything, but their hands and head. No tattoos or other identifying marks. All he could gather was that they had affiliations somewhere in Eastern Europe by their accents.

Greg heard as Mycroft screamed, cursed and at one point an echoing laughter that scared Greg more than the screaming that tore through Greg’s heart.

Greg was aching. His muscles hurt from being beat others were stiff form being tied in the same position for two days. Above all, it was hearing Mycroft, but not seeing him, that tore at him the most.

On the third day five men came into the room and dragged Mycroft in on a leash. His suit, down to shirt and trousers, was in tatters. Sebastian stood by Greg's side, two flanked Mycroft, a lanky bearded one stayed by the door and one more.  He found himself taking in details: the obvious firearms, the way the two nearest Mycroft held themselves said spies to Greg as opposed to the military stance clear in Moran and the others.

Mycroft’s hands were cuffed behind him, he hobbled in his bare feet in leg shackles and he was gagged. They threw him in front of Greg's chair. He had been beaten was being kind. His left eye was closed shut from the bruising, the piercing blue of his right stands out in the bloodshot eye. His feet were bleeding and battered, the hobbler was insult to injury. Dried blood coated the right side of his hair and head, his right arm looked dislocated from the shoulder joint, he was exceptionally pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, his breathing labored as he looked at Greg.

_Oh my God! Mycroft!_

Still that right eye held determination and oddly Greg found strength in it.

_Did he just wink?_

Greg looked up at the man holding the leash and a dark rage slowly surged.

These men were not mall security and Greg knew they had no intention to let them stay alive. Greg understood they were using both of them to control each other. The idea was to extract as much information from Mycroft as possible, then kill them. From the look of Mycroft Holmes they were not being successful. There was a reason he was called The Iceman. Greg had no illusions, he needed to ensure that Mycroft survived.

_What would the Iceman do?_

"What do you want?" Greg asked.

No one answered, just watched his reactions.

"May I look at him? Check him? It looks like you’ve dislocated his shoulder."

"We want information on several of his Eastern ventures tying into Cambodia."

“And you think beating him to a pulp is going to do it?” Greg asked coldly.

Mycroft stared up at him, the one clear blue eye looked incredibly confused.

"He has information we want." a heavy-set man yanked the leash. It made Mycroft flinch incrementally. “If he won’t give it to save his own life, we think he’ll give it to save _yours_.”

The way the man said it sent a fissure of fear down Greg’s spine.

_He meant that._

“He’s a minor government official in charge of transport. What would he know of Cambodia?” Greg said carefully. His brown eyes darted around as one of the men near Mycroft released the gag. Mycroft coughed in pain. His jaw was incredibly bruised.

"Greg, they know. They know exactly who I am.  Who we are.” Mycroft rasped. Greg saw the bruise patterns on his neck.

_Strangulation._

He looked to Sebastian as he judged the hand size, pressure and his memory.

_You’re going to die._

“We are in a relationship which is none of their business. Give the bastards what they want so we can leave, and get you medical attention." Greg looked to the heavy set man that spoke, taking him for the leader.  "I would like to examine him to make sure he will not die from what you’ve done to him before he can get medical attention."

“You are filth." The heavy-set man spat at Greg’s feet. “I would never have such around me.”

“How would you know? There are six men in here, four of us are at least bisexuals. I guarantee you there is at least one confirmed homosexual rapist among you. Isn’t that correct Col--” Mycroft snarled. Mycroft's head was wrenched upright mid-sentence before he named Moran outright.

_My god you can’t help yourself any more than your brother!_

Greg was certain it was solely because of the swollen eye and the angle, that the heavy-set man could not see that Mycroft looked at Colonel Sebastian Moran with all his hate flaring from the one blue eye. Moran certainly saw it as he flinched in the heat of it.

Greg could see as the pain shot up the side of Mycroft’s body. The man on the other side of Mycroft lifted a knee and slammed Mycroft in the stomach.

Greg lurched in his chair and received several punches to his torso for it. They were not pulling punches anymore.

Mycroft yelled, collapsed forward and retched a moment later, spitting blood onto the floor in front of him. The man had done this to Mycroft more than once; boot prints could be seen, evident in the bruising on Mycroft's left hand and upper arm.

That black thing in Greg spread a little more.

"Point made. Please let me to look at him. You get nothing from his death and you’ve only got my cooperation for as long as he lives."

The heavy set man exchanged glances with Moran who reached behind, and detached his wrists from the chair. Greg hissed as he slowly brought his wrists to his chest, flexing the muscles, allowing circulation to return to the numb flesh. His wrists were raw and bleeding from days on constantly pulling on the cuffs. It was remarkably painful. He slid onto the floor in front of Mycroft and took a moment to look at him.

He stroked Mycroft's hair, confirmed the stickiness on his fingers looked worse than what it was. Mycroft's body trembled as Greg’s fingers lightly tapped at the throat though he already knew the windpipe was bruised by the strangulation marks. He lightly tapped along the right arm that was definitely dislocated. He touched and tapped along Mycroft’s torso. He had at least two broken ribs, along with whatever else was damaged internally. He could not see the soles of Mycroft’s feet, but the instep on the left one looked bad.

Greg idly wondered if this was how Mycroft always felt as an odd clarity washed over him and he knew exactly what to do.

As sensation fully returned to his limbs he kept steady eye contact with Mycroft as he examined him. This was their nightmare and Greg was determined they were waking from it. He gave a short nod to Mycroft. This time there was no question regarding the wink. Mycroft understood his taps.

Morse code and in French.

He purposely leaned in as though to kiss Mycroft when felt himself being yanked back as expected.

Greg gave in to blackness and _moved_.

_Time to keep some promises_

Going with the momentum pulling him to the right, he slammed an elbow into Sebastian’s groin, followed by a solid punch to the solar plexus and grabbed Moran’s firearm as the man dropped like a stone. He followed through the turn to deliver the butt of the firearm to the head of the guard to the other side of him. The guard opposite the heavy-set man went for Mycroft. Greg grabbed Mycroft and forced him to the floor while he kicked out and brought the man down. Mycroft had grabbed a gun from the heavy-set man on his way down.

Greg saw a stirring peripherally and didn’t think twice as he shot the man on the left of him. Mycroft shot the heavy set man and the extra.  Greg saw Mycroft flinch as a bullet grazed his left arm. He turned and shot the one by the door who had come running. They both heard Moran’s roar as he started to rise.

Neither will know who made the kill as they simultaneously emptied their respective guns. If a couple of Greg’s head shots were low, Mycroft chose not to notice.

It was only a matter of seconds, less than a minute before Mycroft and he were alone in a room of dead men.

“Gregory…” The gun slipped from Mycroft’s listless fingers as he collapsed against Greg.

Greg pulled a mobile from the pocket of the closest dead man and tapped out a number he had never hoped to call in an emergency. The number that Mycroft had him memorize - Anthea's direct number.

“Anthea, I’ve got him…”

“Protocol!” Anthea snapped.

Greg barely kept from screaming into the mobile as she insisted on codes per protocol first, but he understood and gave them.

“Track this mobile and send everything. Mycroft is severely injured. He needs assistance now!"

“Copy. One moment.” Despite the clipped professional tone, he could hear the relief in her voice as she gave orders.

"We have a fix on your location. Emergency services will arrive in seven or eight minutes." Anthea responded, “For the record, I am certain this is not what Lady Smallwood meant by having you there.”

Though she could not see it, Greg smiled and shook his head.

Anthea’s voice shifted, lowered, “Thank you, Greg. Thank you!”

That was the most heartfelt emotion he had ever heard from the woman. In that moment he knew, that like him, she would do absolutely anything for the man he held.

“I understand, Ag. I do.” Greg said softly. He heard her slight intake of breath as she realized he used the diminutive of her real name. Knew she would understand the level of trust Mycroft must have in Greg to have told him and she could put that same trust in him.

“Let’s get him healed and back where he belongs, okay?” She said quietly. “See you soon.”

“Yes, back to both of us. See you at the hospital.” Greg copied and rang out.

Greg felt around the dead men until he found keys and detached Mycroft’s chains.  The Iceman let out a sharp cry as his right arm protested the movement.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Greg carefully sat and pulled Mycroft into his arms, “You still with me?”

“Always.” Mycroft nodded weakly against him.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment until Greg realized Mycroft had said something.

“What love?”

“This was my favorite suit!” he huffed.

Greg could not help it, he giggled. “The bastards! They all deserve to be shot again for that offense alone.”

“Damned right.” Mycroft concurred with his own sniff of mirth, followed by a quick wince “Stop making me laugh.”

That of course set them both off into more sniggers.

Sherlock and John giggled at a crime scene all the time. And here was Mycroft making his laugh now.

_Damned Holmes boys._

They grew silent again as sirens of multiple ambulances heralded their imminent arrival.

* * *

Mycroft went unconscious just as emergency services arrived. He remained unconscious for several days, connected to various apparatus, he looked so very fragile.

Greg was slightly dehydrated, had a cracked rib and was very pissed off until Anthea and Mycroft’s parents had him cleared to be at the Iceman’s side.

Mycroft awakened, but was kept in intensive care until his doctors were certain there were no complications. In the interim a new serial killer had made the headlines. Greg had to go back to work.

First, he called Donovan, invited her to his place and told her everything. Blindsided with the knowledge of it in the van, once Sally had made her way into NSY she only put in her report that Greg had took her place in the van to save her. With only a handful of people alive who knew the truth, all of whom would die before they told it, the Frankie Jaspers homicide will remain a cold case into perpetuity. Greg was grateful for that. They both chuckled on how she had delivered the message to the wrong Holmes.

“So, we’re good?” Greg asked.

“We’re good.” Sally nodded “Now let’s get back to catching the bad guys. I’ve some thoughts on this serial…”

The serial killer was caught three days later.

Mycroft was released from the hospital the day after.

Not even Ahlers questioned his taking the day off.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They never spoke on it, but Greg realized then that Mycroft was letting on he was aware Greg knew and had left the ball in his court where it stayed at an unspoken impasse for months.
> 
> Until today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end of this tale. It was a hard subject to write. A hard one for many to read, I get it. Yet it was one my muse wanted to tell. I'm so appreciative to all of your readers where you came in on this journey and stuck with it to this happy ending. 
> 
> ** Thank you **

**_Epilogue…_ **

Greg’s eyes went wide at the rumble of a familiar baritone. He dropped the cigarette.

“Ooh, you bastard!”

Gregory Lestrade was one of the top detective inspectors at New Scotland Yard for a reason. He grieved over the death of Sherlock for over a year and then someone slipped up. He and Dr. Molly Hooper were going over the details of triple homicide when Greg had joked how much faster the process would have gone were Sherlock there and imitated the man. Molly laughed and spoke of Sherlock- in present tense. He let it go for a simple slip of the tongue because she was as exhausted as he had been that night, but it stuck.

Then he discovered through John that Mycroft was still paying Sherlock’s half of the rent at Baker Street. Mycroft did not hate John, in fact had come to respect him, but Greg knew he did not exactly care for the man - not enough to be that generous to him. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough. Enough that he started researching on his own. Enough to leave an unsettling feeling in his core. Because if Sherlock Holmes was alive, it meant that Mycroft had been lying to him by omission. But he knew Mycroft, if he withheld the truth from him of all people, there had to be a reason, and he was trusting to that.

It was bad enough that John still did not know. The former army captain went through utter hell in the grieving for the loss of his best friend. Greg had felt complicit in leaving the man in agony. He did not know how Sherlock survived the fall, but Greg knew Sherlock was alive on a gut level and he always trusted his gut instinct. But short of asking Mycroft directly, he had no definitive proof. He could not go to John and potentially give him false hope. Goodness knew Phillip Anderson had spread more than enough of his own for that. Greg had threatened Anderson to stay away from the heartbroken doctor with his getting more insane by the moment theories.

A couple of months after he started investigating he noticed Mycroft had begun to speak of Sherlock in present tense, but _only_ when they were in private. They never spoke on it, but Greg realized then that Mycroft was letting on he was aware Greg knew and left the ball in his court where it stayed at an unspoken impasse for months.

_Until today._

“It’s time to come back. You’ve been letting things slide, Graham.”

Lestrade knew Sherlock could not resist the tease of calling him by the wrong name any more than Greg could resist his Pavlovian response “Greg!”

“Greg.” Sherlock pretended to correct himself.

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, he tried to look angry, but he simply could not do it and slowly grinned. He threw his arms around the detective, delighted to see him in the flesh again. He felt the man stiffen uncomfortably, at first thinking it was just Sherlock being Sherlock, but then he remembered.

“Sorry! I was so chuffed to see you in the flesh again mate, I forgot I wasn’t supposed to know! You okay?” Greg let him go and stepped back.

“As I am now £500 the lesser, no.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in annoyance as he looked over Greg’s shoulder. The detective inspector grinned as a familiar footfall approached from the side.

“I told you Gregory knew.” Mycroft’s smooth vocals showed definite amusement. “It is a very smart man I have here, Brother Mine.”

“You both still have a lot of explaining to do – especially you, Mycroft.” Greg pointed at the British Government, chagrined.

“Damn. My brother said those would be your words, almost verbatim.” Sherlock shook his head. “Do not be hard on him Lestrade, I told him not to tell you, not to tell John or anyone, even when he told me he suspected you knew. He had told me if you asked outright he would not lie to you. I had to accept it.”

“Fair enough.” Greg shrugged morosely. “It’s partially why I couldn’t tell John what I suspected. I had no proof and did not want to get his hopes up in case you weren’t or couldn’t come back. Oh God! John! Have you…?”

“Yes, I have. Last night. That… did not go at all as expected.”

From the flash of hurt that crossed Sherlock’s face, Greg suspected _did not go at all as expected_ was likely a gross understatement of the event.  He held no pity for the man, for whatever hurt he was feeling was nothing compared to what he put John through with his faux death. But this was Sherlock, he never really had the full grasp of the intricacies of emotional interactions.

“You can’t expect him to ignore two years of unnecessary grieving overnight. You can’t - that’s just not how most of us work, Sherlock. No rational human being is going to be able to just switch all that hurt off, erase the life rebuilt in the meantime and pretend it never happened.  I’m sure he’s happy you’re alive, ecstatic even, but you hurt him, _really_ hurt him, Sherlock. He has got to feel incredibly betrayed by this. I know I did at first, by the both of you.”  Greg looked at Mycroft, who at least had the decency to look momentarily abashed. “Just… Give John some time Sherlock. He’ll come around.”

“That’s what Mary said.” Sherlock nodded half in thought.

“Oh, you’ve met her then? Yeah, great gal, she’s been great for John. You’ll like her. I think he was going to – oh no. You met her last night?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I told you not to go there, Sherlock. You interrupted the proposal.” Mycroft pointed out.

“Proposal? What proposal?” Sherlock eyes glanced between Greg and Mycroft, then he got it. “Oh marriage. He wants to marry her? Oh. That’s…nice. Yes, wonderful for him.”

_Is it my imagination – or is Sherlock upset by that?_

Greg looked to Mycroft who had slipped on his Iceman mask.

“Have you told anyone else?” He changed the subject and saw both men relax.

_Okay, touchy subject. I’ll ask Myc later._

“Molly is aware of my return, as I had to pass St. Bart’s on the way here to see you.”

“But she already knew you weren’t dead, not the same thing.” Greg said, “I meant of those of us who didn’t or weren’t supposed to know.”

Sherlock scowled. Greg raised a confused brow as Mycroft chuckled.

“And look, another 500 quid to flee from my brother’s pockets to line my own. Thank you, my dear.”

Greg couldn’t help but smirk as he realized that meant Sherlock had wagered he did not know about Molly.

_£1000 wow! Mycroft really does know me._

“John was first - obviously. I wanted you to know second. Mrs. Hudson will be next.” Sherlock sighed. “In fact, I’ll get on to that now. See you around the Yard. As I said, you’ve been slipping.”

“Right. See you around.” Greg laughed “I hope Mrs. H. bops you one silly.”

“I suspect she will at that. Apparently, I’ve earned it. I suspect you two need to talk. I’ll get a taxi.” Sherlock gave a single nod to Mycroft and walked away. They watched his receding form for a moment, then Mycroft turned to him.

“I am sorry, Gregory. You have every right to feel betrayed. I wanted to tell you, but I could not break my word to him.” 

“And he made you give your word, didn’t he? Sherlock made you say the words, knowing once said you would not go back on them?” Greg sighed. “I thought as much. You may have broken a promise or two to me. You may have circumvented your way around a couple of others, but you have never broken _your word_ to me. You’re right I did not directly ask you. You would have been forced to break faith with one of us. I didn’t want to force you to choose.”

“No, Gregory. You did not want risk that you’d lose in my choice. That you would be the one I’d lie to.” Mycroft shook his head slowly as he stepped closer to Greg. “I am sorry that when it came between you and my brother that you ever felt I would lie to you. I admit, I may find I have to lie by omission, such as this, but I will not blatantly lie. Not to you. Never to you. Forgive me.”

Greg could tell Mycroft wanted to touch him. He grasped his umbrella tightly, knuckles going white under the stress of not knowing how Greg will react. They both noted Mycroft’s sedan as it pulled up in sight of the two men, but well out of hearing.

“I forgave you once I realized you knew that I figured it out. You told me the only way you knew how without breaking your word. And Sherlock did just say you told him you would not have lied to me, had I asked. If I were just learning of it now, I may not have been as forgiving, but I’ve had a few months to digest it. That’s good enough for me.”  Greg wanted so badly to touch Mycroft, but he remembered where they were. He was surprised as it was that no one had come down to the carpark, these past few minutes of talking.

“Oh, fuck this.”

Greg stepped to Mycroft, his hand snaking behind the Iceman’s head pulling him into a kiss. He fully expected Mycroft to fight it. The man instinctively froze in place by the surprise of it, but when Greg did not let go, he yielded into it and gave back in kind.

“Grégoire.” fell from Mycroft’s lips on a soft breath full of happiness at Greg's forgiveness and need, when they separated.

“Christ, when you say my name like that, it’s just… well _damn_. It makes me want to do such indescribably nasty things with you and then propose to you. Say it again, _please_.” His own need filled that last word.

Two sets of eyes widened at the revelation neither expected.

Mycroft backed away stunned. Greg smiled shyly and waited patiently as Mycroft quickly and then slowly scanned him looking for any sign of falsehood or ill humor. A carpark was probably one of the least romantic places on earth it could have happened, but he was not worried about his partner’s scan. Greg knew he spoke his heart’s truth and by the multiple blinks coming from the British Government, now Mycroft knew its truth as well.

“Not that the first part is needed as incentive for the second, but since the offer is on the table, my love, if you could be so kind as to perhaps describe the items of the first part in in _oh so exacting_ detail and then be prepared to immediately follow through on those details terminating with the second part, I give you my word I will be most accommodating to all parts.”  Mycroft stepped forward again, his inscrutable mask firmly place.

It was Greg’s turn to take a step back and as he quirked a brow at Mycroft. He then held up a finger and pulled out his mobile.

“Hey Sal, I’m taking some personal hours for an unexpected need, I mean lead, has come up.” Greg bit his lip to keep from laughing as Mycroft made a show of gently fondling his umbrella “Yeah, the rest of the day... Oh, who had the Croftory pool for today? ... Salome Renee Donovan, don't you dare _what’s Croftory_ me! ... I did, why? ”Greg frowned for a moment before a smile graced his rugged features and he continued, “And just for that I’ll see you tomorrow _afternoon_.”

“Croftory? That is a most horrid portmanteau. And I thought the Mystrade pool was pedantic.” Mycroft rolled his eyes when Greg rang out. He pulled the DI in for a lovely, lingering kiss then held up a finger as he took his own mobile out.

“Anthea, please reschedule everything I have for the rest of today until later this week.” He let his eyes roam Greg’s body, “and reschedule tomorrow morning as well.  Yes, Korea too. You… I see… Congratulations to you and thank you, I will pass along the salutations.” He looked to Greg as he rang out and raised a brow, “Anthea offers her congratulations. It appears she won our office pool for closest date.”  

“Yeah, as did Sal who also won that I’d be the one to pop the question. It seems our respective ladies in waiting know us well.” Greg chuckled.

“That they do.” Mycroft concurred.

The two men eyed each other. Greg held his arms out in a silent query of _Well?_

Mycroft gave Greg his most lascivious grin and with all the lust and love he could possibly imbrue into the word he whispered, “ _Grégoire_.”

Greg knew Mycroft enjoyed every second as he watched the effect that effusive acceptance to his proposal had on him.

_Oh, he’s smiling that smile, ya._

That the man did not smile often with others was an understatement. A genuine smile was even more rare.

But Mycroft does smile around Greg and often, but most important, right now, he was smiling _that_ smile.

_THAT smile right there, the smile only I get._

That smile was like some kind of magic.

_Oh, but you forgot payback is such a bitch, Iceman._

Greg stepped towards Mycroft, leaned close to his ear and did his own whispering.

The detective inspector grinned as Mycroft blinked several times while his jaw slowly slackened at Greg’s _oh_ _so exacting_ detail.

“Fuuuck.” Mycroft exhaled in a heated breath as he looked at Greg in wonder. 

_Oh, I haven’t even gotten started, my love._

“First one to the sedan gives first suck.” Greg purred. When the erstwhile cool as a cucumber Iceman took a moment and adjusted himself in his trousers, Greg ran. Not even ten seconds away Greg found himself sprawled on the carpark floor in laughter. He unhooked a familiar umbrella from between his legs as a three-piece, pin-striped, bespoke suited breeze passed him. Mycroft slowed and took two calm steps to the sedan then leaned on the door as though everything was perfectly normal.

“After you my dirty tardy fiancé.” With a most cheeky grin, Mycroft held the sedan door open as the detective inspector bravely accepted his _loss_ and approached.

With his own grin firmly in place, Greg winked as he handed Mycroft the umbrella and stepped in, “No, my dirty playing fiancé, after _you.”_

_~~ fin  and thank you ~~_


End file.
